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Diplomacy
Ursula von der Leyen & Emmanuel Macron - Choose Europe for Science event at La Sorbonne - 2025

Opinion – European Credibility and the Illusion of Normative Power

by Joseph Black

한국어로 읽기 Leer en español In Deutsch lesen Gap اقرأ بالعربية Lire en français Читать на русском On 30 May 2025, French President Emmanuel Macron delivered a speech at the Shangri-La Dialogue in Singapore – Asia’s premier security summit – and his comments were unusually blunt. He warned that the West – Europe and the US – risk losing credibility over the wars in Ukraine and Gaza, and unless these conflicts are resolved with integrity and consistency, the broader rules-based international order and Europe’s place in it will unravel. Macron’s concern wasn’t just about the tactical consequences of geopolitical instability, but something deeper: the symbolic and normative weight Europe claims to carry in global affairs. His comments mark a turning point, one that exposes the crisis of coherence at the heart of the European Union’s foreign policy – and the growing tension between the EU’s aspirational identity as a “normative power” and the harsh realities of a world governed by realpolitik. For over two decades, the EU has presented itself as a values-based actor, using diplomacy, development aid, legal harmonisation and multilateralism rather than coercion to wield influence. The concept of the EU as a “normative power” – famously coined by Ian Manners – is based on the idea that Europe seeks to shape global affairs by promoting norms such as human rights, democracy and international law. But the simultaneous occurrence of two deeply symbolic and contested wars – Russia’s invasion of Ukraine and Israel’s bombardment of Gaza – makes it increasingly hard for the EU to maintain this self-image without being accused of hypocrisy and selective morality. Nowhere is this more obvious than in the gap between Europe’s response to Ukraine and Gaza. In Ukraine, the EU has mounted one of the largest and most united responses in its history: military aid, sanctions, diplomatic isolation of Russia and open arms for Ukrainian refugees. In Gaza, the response has been fragmented, inconsistent and – by many accounts – morally ambiguous. Some European states like Ireland and Spain have called for recognition of Palestinian statehood and condemned Israeli actions, others have hesitated or doubled down on support for Israel in the name of counterterrorism and alliance politics. This has not gone unnoticed in the Global South, where Europe’s normative claims are increasingly seen as hollow, if not ridiculous. Macron’s talk of credibility reflects an elite awareness that Europe’s legitimacy is no longer taken for granted outside its borders. The credibility crisis he describes is not just about diplomacy – it’s about identity. If the EU says territorial integrity is sacred in Ukraine, how can it do nothing when the same principles are being flouted elsewhere? If the Union says human rights are universal, can it be silent – or ambiguous – on the civilian casualties in Gaza? These are not questions asked by foreign policy analysts; they are asked in international forums, in Asian capitals courted by Brussels and in the protests that fill European streets. The more the EU fails to match its words with its actions, the more its normative brand erodes. But there’s another layer to Macron’s intervention that needs to be looked at. His comments on “strategic autonomy” and not being caught in the crossfire of the US-China rivalry suggest Europe is dealing with more than just a credibility crisis. It’s facing a strategic choice that will redefine its global role: whether to double down on the postwar transatlantic compact or to chart a more independent course that allows it to mediate between blocs in a multipolar world. Macron’s consistent advocacy of strategic autonomy (however controversial) means he recognises the EU can’t outsource its geopolitical relevance to Washington indefinitely, especially with the return of Donald Trump to the White House. This dilemma is made worse by the structural weaknesses within the EU itself. The Union’s foreign policy is crippled by institutional fragmentation, national interests and a consensus-based decision-making process that often leads to lowest-common-denominator positions. While the EU was impressive in its initial unity on Ukraine, the Gaza crisis has shown the limits of that unity when values collide with political alliances or domestic political considerations. This is not just a crisis of perception but of capacity. Can the EU actually be a geopolitical player when its member states can’t even agree on what is legitimate force, occupation or humanitarian necessity? The illusion of normative power, then, is not just an external branding problem – it is an internal governance challenge. For Europe to maintain credibility abroad, it must first reconcile its internal contradictions. That means rethinking the balance between values and interests, between ideals and strategic imperatives. It may also require a degree of institutional boldness: deeper integration in foreign and security policy, a greater role for the High Representative, or a shift toward qualified majority voting in foreign affairs. At the same time, Europe must also acknowledge the changing global landscape in which it seeks to operate. In a world no longer dominated by Western hegemony, the EU’s normative influence depends not only on its coherence but on its ability to listen and engage with actors in Asia, Africa, and Latin America as equals rather than as recipients of European lectures. Macron’s call for a “positive new alliance” between Europe and Asia, one that resists domination by any superpower, hints at a potential path forward. But such an alliance will only be credible if Europe demonstrates that it is willing to apply its principles even when inconvenient—especially when those principles are tested not just by adversaries but by allies. In the end, Macron’s speech serves as a mirror held up to the European project itself. It reflects both its aspirations and its anxieties, its potential and its paradoxes. Whether Europe can move beyond this moment of crisis to forge a foreign policy that is both principled and strategic remains uncertain. What is clear, however, is that credibility cannot be commanded—it must be earned. And in an era of increasing global scrutiny, that will require more than rhetoric. It will require resolve. The text of this work is licensed under  a Creative Commons CC BY-NC 4.0 license.

Defense & Security
ISS052-E-37828 - View of Earth

Space in the international relations of Asia: a guide to technology, security, and diplomacy in a strategic domain

by Saadia M. Pekkanen

한국어로 읽기 Leer en español In Deutsch lesen Gap اقرأ بالعربية Lire en français Читать на русском ABSTRACT This essay brings space into the international relations of Asia. It orients readers to three unfolding trends that are shaping the evolution of the new space race at present – democratization, commercialization, and militarization (DCM). It surveys how these trends reflect, illuminate, or are connected to the theory and practice of international relations (IR) both in global and regional settings in Asia. Where possible, it brings in the space activities of the main independent and autonomous space powers in Asia – China, Japan, India, South Korea, North Korea – and probes what their activities signify for international and regional politics. It ends with some thematic takeaways for space policy, strategy, and diplomacy. Space is a strategic domain, meaning that its uses cut across civilian and military realities and will therefore long remain of vital interest to all states. Since its inception, space has drawn significant and long-standing attention in the fields of law and policy. Lawyers, legal scholars, diplomats, and policy analysts have covered the rise and interpretation of the space law regime in place today, which is centered on a set of space treaties, resolutions, and organized multilateral activities.Footnote1 Thanks to these efforts we have a good understanding of governance frameworks, the challenges they face, and how they may play out in constructing the peaceful uses of outer space. But studies that bring international relations (IR) theory and practice to bear on outer space affairs are far fewer in comparison to the voluminous law and policy literature. While IR scholars have generated works related to other emerging technologies, such as drones, cyberweapons, and artificial intelligence, space generally still remains understudied.Footnote2 This is surprising as the critical infrastructure of space anchors modern economies, militaries, and societies in a way no other technology does. It lies at the intersection of virtually all political, economic, and social forces that have been and will remain of concern to states. The space domain is not aloof from the “harsher realities of politics;”Footnote3 and, in fact, continues to reflect almost every feature of global politics in play – ideology, nationalism, aid, integration, division, and security, for example.Footnote4 Using the lens of states and their national interests, this symposium is among the first comprehensive efforts to combine IR perspectives, space studies, and the history, politics, and economics of Asia – a region with the most dynamic, ambitious, and competent sovereign space powers today. Alongside China, Japan, India, and North Korea, South Korea has risen rapidly as another determined player that is leveraging its industrial capabilities, alliances, and networks to position itself in the unfolding competition of the new space race. Australia and New Zealand, and other countries in South and Southeast Asia have also long been marked with emerging space activities and ambitions.Footnote5 These developments come at a time when both the United States and China are leading two different space regimes that extend beyond territorial matters to Low Earth Orbit (LEO) and celestial bodies.Footnote6 What states are doing in the IR of space, who with, why, and how affects prospects for war and peace. One indication of the importance of space nested in the contemporary geopolitical flux is reflected in The Camp David Joint Statement from August 2023, in which the U.S., South Korea, and Japan seek to enhance trilateral dialogues on space security.Footnote7 This essay guides readers to developments in the space domain, and the ways they connect to the theory and practice of IR. The first part interrogates the idea of the IR of space at the broadest level, and sets out the three principal trends that are shaping its evolution today – democratization, commercialization, and militarization (DCM). The second part then turns to asking where Asia fits in this tapestry, drawing on the intellectual lineage of key debates in the field as well as the findings from this symposium. The third part extracts some thematic takeaways that are likely to be of interest to makers of space policy, strategy, and diplomacy. What is the International Relations of Space? Space has always been – and will long remain – couched in IR theory that is centrally concerned with alternative explanations about competition and cooperation.Footnote8 The paradigmatic or theoretical approach analysts bring to space – such as realism, liberalism, constructivism, and so on – has consequences for relations among and within states.Footnote9 Political scientists are increasingly interested in the theory and practice of the IR of space, and in understanding the implications for real-world collaboration, competition, leadership, and diplomacy.Footnote10 This section provides a guide to the principal actors and the trends of the new space race in which they seek to position. The State in the International Relations of Space For the foreseeable future, outer space affairs will remain rooted in the geopolitics on Earth, and this will necessitate a focus on the makers of policy, strategy, and diplomacy. Nothing about this is new. Space could not escape the “political rivalries of this world” in the old space race; and the idea that U.S. leaders may well have had no option from the late 1950s onwards but to “allow for all possibilities by speaking of idealism and acting with realism” speaks with equal force to the complexities of decision-making in the present space race.Footnote11 The IR of space is about actors, their motivations, and the consequences of their actions for stability in, through, and at the nexus of space. This general framing of the IR of space draws attention away from unproductive and narrow theoretical debates, encourages analytical eclecticism, and privileges a pragmatic, policy-relevant, and problem-focused approach.Footnote12 Further, the approach locates actions and agency in known circumstances, remains deeply attentive to both material and ideational processes over time, is mindful of situational idiosyncrasies, and in sync with the inevitable ups and downs of geopolitics. Frankly, this kind of eclectic pragmatism is necessary in a dynamic domain in which scholars and practitioners want to grapple with visible challenges that need real-world solutions. As in other areas, a focus on states allows us to capture the “deeper political foundations, trajectory, centrality, and implications”Footnote13 of newer developments that can be consequential for the theory and practice of IR. Even when theoreticians are supportive of, opposed to, or merely agnostic about states as a unit of analysis, almost all of them have to grapple with interactive state actions at both the domestic and international levels.Footnote14 The idea of space policy analysis, which draws attention to sub-state actors and drivers of decision-making while crisscrossing levels of analysis, certainly enriches our understanding of major players beyond the West.Footnote15 But in many emerging space countries, and especially in the IR of Asia, the state remains the gatekeeper to the domestic-international nexus. Focusing on states also induces an equality in the IR of space, as many developing and emerging countries do not have the numerous legal, commercial, and nonprofit actors from the advanced industrial world who seek to influence outcomes across international forums and processes. This state-centricism is especially relevant in the strategic space domain − 95% of which comprises dual-use space technologies.Footnote16 In it, states are proactively seeking to position their countries vis-à-vis others because its very duality promises both civilian and military benefits. This reality is reinforced by the present legal space regime, which privileges the role of states as a matter of public international law. As on Earth so also for space, it is ultimately states that back and consume innovative space technologies, design strategies and policies, and construct or scuttle governance in line with their political and economic interests.Footnote17 None of this is to suggest that states are the only actors in the space domain, or that their preferences magically prevail in all matters of policy, strategy, or diplomacy. Rather, at the end of the day, it is states that possess both the ultimate and final authority over their citizens, thus regulating how this collective interacts with its counterparts.Footnote18 The Key Trends Shaping the IR of Space The new space race demands as well a new way of seeing the whole picture, which balances its principal trends without privileging any one of them. All states are presently navigating the intersections of three deeply intertwined trends in the new space race that pose novel questions and challenges for their own security – democratization, commercialization, and the slide from militarization to outright weaponization (DCM).Footnote19 While these trends may be analytically distinct, they are in reality fluid, nonlinear, and synergistic. They are interwoven into the fabric of the IR of space today, and if a problem-focused approach is to lend itself to real-world solutions it is meaningless to talk about strategy or policy concerning one or another in isolation. This has implications for IR theory more generally. A plethora of well-debated approaches, concepts, and constructs mark its two main subfields of international security and international political economy across all regions of the world – war, peace, balance of power, industrial policy, interdependence, governance, norms, diplomacy, for example. These theoretical constructs have to reconcile with the complexities of DCM. Doing so prevents hyperbole about a “knowable and certain future” for organizations, societies, and soldiers with stakes in space.Footnote20 It encourages vigilance about the commercialization-militarization axis fueling gray-zone ventures in space, where a commercial space actor operating for a rival could do what previously was the realm of only government military operations.Footnote21 It prevents naïve thinking that space commerce is unrelated to defense, or that private assets cannot become legitimate military targets in the fog of war.Footnote22 When it comes time to pass United Nations resolutions backed by a leading space power that can govern prospects for space safety how old and new actors in space align diplomatically on a normative basis is affected by their industrial and political interests in the context of DCM.Footnote23 The high-profile return of industrial policy in the U.S. stretches to the space industrial base, and includes efforts to strengthen the resilience of its supply chains with commercial space players and nongovernmental actors.Footnote24 As an analytical rubric, the trends in the DCM triumvirate, fleshed out below, help states see the many moving and equally important parts of the new space race, connect actions and technologies involving their counterparts spread around the world, and build a far more balanced awareness of the policies and strategies necessary to advance their own interests amid all the dynamism. The triumvirate, in short, is a powerful conceptual reminder for all states that “the church of strategy must be a broad one” in the space domain.Footnote25 One trend of the triumvirate stems from changes in manufacturing and accessibility, which have opened up — or “democratized” — the space domain to newcomers. Many of the newer state entrants have created space agencies, written national space legislation, targeted specific manufacturing or regulatory niches, and signed agreements with international partners and private companies. Alongside the rising number of nation-states, this democratization draw in nongovernmental entrants such as commercial startups, activist billionaires, criminal syndicates, and so on who could aid or thwart government objectives.Footnote26 New actors continue to proliferate across all regions and continents, with activities that crisscross the public and private spheres and that affect prospects for transnational collaboration in myriad ways. The year 2023 is illustrative of democratization in practice. In mid August, the SpaceX Crew Dragon spacecraft reached the International Space Station (ISS).Footnote27 This was the seventh crew rotation mission by SpaceX, a private U.S. company, and it carried four civilian agency astronauts from America, Europe, Russia, and Japan. In its previous mission to the ISS, SpaceX flew NASA astronauts, along with those from Russia and the United Arab Emirates. Earlier in May, SpaceX used its Dragon spacecraft and Falcon 9 rocket to launch an all-private astronaut mission to the ISS for a company called Axiom Space, which aims to build the world’s first commercial space station; it then carried passengers from the United States as well as both a male and female astronaut from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.Footnote28 Democratization extends to the moon. With India’s successful soft-landing on the moon in August, yet another Asian country after China now holds the distinction of being on the lunar surface.Footnote29 Private actors in Asia are also part of the tapestry. While a lunar lander attempt by a private Japanese company, ispace, was not successful in April, the company is persevering with bringing both governments and private payloads to the moon.Footnote30 More foundational for the purposes of enabling certainty for commercial transactions are some of the steps ispace took prior to the launch. It was granted a license by the Japanese government to engage in an “in-place” property transfer of ownership of lunar regolith to NASA. All these developments represent a dramatically varied landscape, which also raises challenges for building meaningful consensus in the years ahead.Footnote31 A second trend in the triumvirate is commercialization, driven by a whole new generation of space entrepreneurs. Chief among their unprecedented innovations are reusable rocketry and mega-constellations of satellites, driven by so-called newspace corporations such as SpaceX, Blue Origin, Rocket Lab, Amazon, Planet, ICEYE, Blacksky, Axelspace, and Synspective. Together these companies have not only changed prospects for frequent and cheaper access to space, but they have also changed the geospatial view of virtually all human activities on the planet, whether on land or the oceans.Footnote32 These newer entrants present competition for more established players like Boeing, Arianespace, Lockheed Martin, Raytheon, Mitsubishi Heavy Industries, Mitsui, and Thales Alenia, for example. All these corporations seek profitable niches in the global space economy, which one estimate puts at a minimum of $384 billion in 2022 and others put higher.Footnote33 Notably, the present satellite industry accounts for over 70% of the space economy. This indicates a “space-for-earth” economy, meaning space goods and services with direct use on Earth such as telecommunications and internet infrastructure, Earth observation satellites, military satellites, and so on.Footnote34 This reality accounted for 95% of the revenues earned in the space sector in 2019. Given the dependence of the global economy on space-based assets, some argue the commercial peace thesis may stay the hand of space-related conflict.Footnote35 This is good news also if the space market grows, as projected, to between $1.1 trillion and $2.7 trillion by the 2040s.Footnote36 But there is a healthy debate about what else may be scalable beyond just the satellite-enabled communications infrastructure that sustains the space economy at present. Further, despite all the rosy projections about the space economy, there is little information about which of the venture-backed private newspace entrants is or likely to be profitable anytime soon. After over two decades of operation, it is only recently that SpaceX, which leads with its rocket launches and internet-satellite business, has reported it generated $55 million in profits on $1.5 billion in revenue in the first quarter of 2023.Footnote37 In the non-satellite segment of the space economy, the search for new markets and customers certainty continues worldwide. But government budgets will matter to the survivability of many innovative technologies, products, and services where market prospects are nascent, emerging, or just plain uncertain. These include, for example, commercial human spaceflight, space stations, lunar landers and habitats, and space resources mining. The total governmental budgets for space programs worldwide is estimated to be between $92.4 billion to $107 billion.Footnote38 The U.S. government leads the world with the largest institutional budget at around $55 billion; setting aside the collective European budget at $14 billion, the single-country budgets that successively follow the U.S. are China (speculatively, $10 billion), Japan (over $4 billion), Russia ($3.5 billion), and India ($1.96 billion). More generally, the presence of government actors alerts us to a range of theoretical political economy considerations that cut across geopolitics and geoeconomics in the space domainFootnote39: the logic of state-centricism in and out of Asia in fostering innovation, the multifaceted drivers of space commercialization and privatization around the world, and the newspace business hype that needs to be reconciled with the dynamics of state interests in economic-security linkages. A final trend in the DCM triumvirate is militarization sliding into weaponization of a dual-use technology. But we may be returning to the historical roots of space technology because what we now think of as dual-use originated as military first.Footnote40 From rockets to satellites to missile defense, civilian and commercial space technologies can be morphed to serve military or national security ends. A state’s military space power can be measured not just by total space expenditures but also latent capabilities in existing commercial architecture.Footnote41 Many actors can access, or collaboratively develop, a wide spectrum of military capabilities while professing to pursue worthy civilian and commercial goals, such as launching rockets, enabling satellite communication, expanding Earth observation, developing GPS capabilities, or servicing malfunctioning satellites. These activities can be legitimized as peaceful and defensive, but their uses can also be converted to offensive purposes. As more actors join space activities and as commercial players spread space products and technologies around the world, the ambiguities of dual-use space technologies make it more and more difficult to distinguish a space asset from a weapon, or space control operations as defensive or offensive. This melding of the commercialization-militarization axis means that many advanced, emerging, and disruptive technologies that are significant for defense applications and for potentially gaining an edge over rivals are couched in commercial rather than military-industrial complexes; these technologies and capabilities are also spread unevenly across geopolitical lines.Footnote42 Depending on their financial and organizational capacities to adopt innovations, states may well face risky scenarios in an international system out of tune with power realities in which the actual balance of power diverges sharply from the distribution of benefits.Footnote43 Further, the problem is that all space assets are equally vulnerable to a range of both kinetic and non-kinetic threats, which can go from an irreversible missile hit to temporarily disabling electronic and cyber attacks on a space asset.Footnote44 Since it is hard to separate military and civilian space services, accidental or purposeful actions against those used by the military would inevitably also affect those used by civilian and commercial stakeholders. Protecting access to space and safeguarding operations within space are, therefore, a vital interest for all states interested in space for national advancement. Unfortunately, no orbit is safe or secure. This is especially concerning for the United States, which is the world’s most space-dependent power, and whose nuclear command-and-control operations worldwide rely on space assets. As of January 2023, roughly 67% of all operating satellites belonged to the U.S., with a significant part of them commercial.Footnote45 This dependence will only grow as U.S.-led mega constellations, as well as other in-space activities, proliferate. Accidents can happen, and this specter is rising as orbits become more and more crowded with civil, commercial, and military activities.Footnote46 Orbital debris, big and tiny leftovers from decades of space activities that whiz around at lethal speeds, already represent known hazards. The ISS often has to maneuver to get out of the way, and functioning satellites are also vulnerable. Satellites can collide accidentally, degrading or ending their operations; human beings can die. But it is the menace of purposeful and deliberate targeting of the space-enabled infrastructure that cannot be ruled out in the geopolitical turmoil today. There is an intensifying strategic competition between the U.S. and its allies, China, and Russia over the making of a new world order.Footnote47 This means also that there are ample incentives for U.S. adversaries to deny the heavily space-dependent United States use of its space assets in peacetime or wartime under cover of dual-use ambiguities; there are also incentives for the U.S. and its allies to do the reverse to adversaries.Footnote48 In all likelihood, every country would suffer under such scenarios, but the heavily space-dependent U.S. would suffer most. Kinetic anti-satellite (ASAT) tests have already been carried out by some of the top spacefaring powers – China (2007), the U.S. (2008), India (2019), and Russia (2021) – and have led to a U.S. declaration to ban them.Footnote49 In the non-kinetic realm, cyber attacks are a looming realistic threat for satellites and other space assets just as they for any another digitized critical infrastructure.Footnote50 Many key U.S. allies, such as Japan and Korea as well as members of NATO, see the same threats and, with extended deterrence in mind, have begun working closely with the U.S. to reshape security architectures and postures in the space domain. The war in Ukraine has also changed perceptions worldwide about the safety of the critical infrastructure of space, with Russia’s electronic and cyberattacks targeting satellite systems.Footnote51 Both the U.S. and its allies also understand that targeting U.S. space assets affects the great power status of the U.S. – the basis for its hard and soft power – which is why space will long remain a national and international imperative. Space is also pivotal because it is at the intersection of virtually all emerging and disruptive technology frontiers, such as AI, quantum computing, and cyber weapons, which can potentially affect a country’s military edge over others.Footnote52 One indication of the importance of U.S. space systems to the government for critical national and homeland security functions is reflected in institutional budgets. Worldwide, in 2021, an estimate is that civilian budgets were around $54 billion and military budgets at about $38 billion.Footnote53 The United States stands out relative to the rest of the world, irrespective of the actual size of these budgets, accounting for just under 60% of all government expenditures on space program on a global basis. The U.S. military space budget is estimated to be between roughly $30–34 billion dollars, significantly higher than its civilian budget at around $25–26 billion. With the formation of the U.S. Space Force, and the perceived growing threat to space, these patterns are unlikely to shift and will affect the evolution of U.S.-led space security architectures worldwide. Beyond orbital regimes, there are also concerns about celestial bodies, which include the moon, Mars, comets, and asteroids. The moon has become a prestigious prize. There is a race to put the next humans and outposts on it. While every state wants to be a space nation and to benefit from space-enabled prosperity and security all the way to the moon the simple point is that not all of them can be in the elite club of states who have the will and capabilities to do just that.Footnote54 Collaboration too is likely to remain divisive in the new lunar space race, whether intentional or not.Footnote55 54 countries have already signed the Artemis Accords led by the U.S. since 2020, which contain principles outlining civil exploration in space that are heralded for their openness, transparency, and predictability for all stakeholders.Footnote56 Meanwhile, China has entered into an MOU with Russia to establish an international lunar research station, with multiple scientific and exploration objectives, that is likely to be constructed on the south pole of the moon.Footnote57 The south pole on the moon is where both China and the U.S. have marked out potential landing sites as their new competing lunar programs get underway.Footnote58 It is also the region in which India, a signatory of the Artemis Accords, was instrumental in confirming the presence of water and where it has also soft-landed before anyone else.Footnote59 While no IR analyst can easily predict how the strategic culture of any state will affect its behavior in the context of space resources or space habitats it is foreseeable that such developments are significant for advancing national and relative power.Footnote60 The defense-industrial complex in the United States is paying attention to what all this will mean for the balance of power in space. The LunA-10 framework represents the next-generation quest for an integrated 10-year lunar architecture that could catalyze a commercial space economy with the U.S. in the lead.Footnote61 How competition and collaboration play out depends on how states choose to reconcile the trends of the DCM triumvirate with their own interests as they, and their counterparts, all set their sights on the moon. As technologies are always uncertain and the landscape of allies and rivals can shift, diplomacy for space security may be more necessary than ever as these lunar armadas set off.Footnote62 How Does Space Fit in the International Relations of Asia? The new space race is not going into some vacuum in the study and practice of the IR of Asia. Nor are the regional space politics divorced from the DCM trends that are reshaping prospects for all actors across all continents. There is history and intellectual precedent in how we can expect Asian states to engage with DCM trends, signifying also prospects for conflict and collaboration both in and out of the region. It is especially important to get this narrative right at a time when Asia can boast the greatest concentration of independent and autonomous space powers relative to every other region on the planet, making it pivotal for the future of space security. These are, to date, also the principal powers who have been central to shaping the dynamics of the IR of Asia in the world – China, Japan, India, North Korea, and South Korea. Caveats and Preexisting Works A few things first. This is not the place to get into polemics about what Asia is, a contested term that is perhaps most useful for differentiating it from the equally murky idea of the “West.”Footnote63 For the purposes of this essay the most useful broad category is the one from the United Nations which categorizes Member States into the regional group of the “Asia-Pacific.”Footnote64 This includes countries from Northeast, Southeast, South, Central, and Southwest Asia as well as those from the Pacific islands. This keeps us attuned to not just to the activities of the independent and autonomous space powers, but also others in the broader Asia-Pacific, such as Australia, New Zealand, and others in Southeast, Central, South, and West Asia, who are also making strides and positioning in the DCM triumvirate. This broad sweep is likely to be most useful for understanding the entanglements of the space domain in the years ahead. There is of course a substantial body of knowledge on the IR of Asia. This is also not the place to do justice to the painstaking works that have, over decades, improved our solid understanding of key aspects of the IR of Asia and allowed us to portray region-wide, sub-regional, and extra-regional interactions. A few broad works can only help us extract and reflect on the broad nature of the subject-matter involved in the making of IR of Asia to date, which continues to resonate in debates about whether or not Asia’s geography is “ripe for rivalry.”Footnote65 In very broad brushstrokes the subject-matter includesFootnote66: historical, political, and social forces that have shaped the region over time; the relevance or irrelevance of mainstream Western IR theories; the making and makeup of foreign economic or security policies; the drivers of integration or rivalries amid structural global shifts, the organizational and institutional patterns of governance, for example. More closely mirroring the IR concepts and constructs noted earlier, there are also in the IR of Asia prominent cross-cutting ideas, such as the role of states and industrial policy, economic-security linkages, technonationalism, economic regionalism and interdependence, regional organizations and institutions, balancing, bandwagoning, hedging, alliances and security architectures, and so on. But as in IR more generally, so also regionally there appears to be less of a focus on integrating space technologies into the broader fabric of changed global and regional politics. In terms of work on specific technologies in Asia, there has certainly been longstanding attention on conventional military capabilities, nuclear acquisitions, and ballistic missile defense, all of which can exacerbate security dilemmas. But there is less so on space in particular, though a number of works have contributed to our general understanding of individual space powers in Asia.Footnote67 The findings from this symposium, interwoven with IR themes below, also contributes to advancing these knowledge frontiers with implications for national interests, regional risks, and interstate stability. A cogent case for a space race in Asia back in 2012 did not prejudge any particular outcome for space security. Footnote68 In the broad sweep of space activities across Northeast, Southeast, and South Asian countries, one conclusion at the time was that Asia’s emerging space powers were keenly attuned to keeping score, following relative gains, and marking nationalist advantages vis-à-vis regional rivals. Footnote69 From the benchmark of that study, the question is what has changed in terms of Asian states and their motivations in a world returned to great power competition. Su-Mi Lee raises these questions at the start of this symposium focusing on the case of South Korea: Will South Korea and other Asian states take sides between great powers building competing blocs in the region? Or as a middle power, will South Korea recast itself as an agenda setter, rather than a passive follower, and expand its own network in space development, independently of great powers, and contribute to the peaceful uses of outer space? Jongseok Woo offers up a view on the impact of the ongoing Sino-U.S. rivalry in the Asia-Pacific region specifically on South Korea’s strategic choices in security and military affairs, as well as its space policies. There is a close connection between South Korea’s space policies and its broader economic, security, and military interests. He asserts that South Korea’s choice to align with the United States and China on trilateral cooperation in space development has arisen directly as a response to China’s assertive and aggressive policies in the Asia-Pacific region, which have also fostered negative perceptions about China among South Koreans. Material and Ideational Building Blocks There are also material and ideational building blocks that clue us into the ways space can be brought into the IR of Asia. They can guide work at a theoretical level, illuminate intersections with the politics and trends of the DCM worldwide, lead to distinctive expectations about collaboration and stability, and help us reflect on likely pathways for policy, strategy, and diplomacy in the new space race. There are three thematic clusters fleshed out below that might prove to be fruitful for these aims: (1) the state and industrial policy, intertwined with thinking on technology, economic-security linkages, and geoeconomics, (2) complex regional interdependence including economic integration, supply chains, and institutional governance, and (3) security architectures and alliances amid the changed geopolitical dynamics of the U.S.–China bipolar competition. All these clusters suggest that divorcing military and economic security for states in the region would be an analytical and policy blunder in the new space race. The Evolution of the State and Industrial Policy First, whatever the debates about its nature,Footnote70 the state in the IR of Asia is alive and well. Relative to other actors, it is unlikely to be displaced as the preeminent sovereign entity, particularly in matters of industrial and technological transformations. It has a distinguished pedigree in the region, finding its conceptual role at the center of huge theoretical and policy controversies about states and economic development.Footnote71 At one point, eight economies – Hong Kong, Indonesia, Japan, the Republic of Korea, Malaysia, Singapore, Taiwan, and Thailand – rose prominently in the international economy, a phenomenon that became known as the “East Asian miracle.”Footnote72 At the heart of the controversy was the role played by states, and whether their interventions in the market made the difference to their economic and industrial transformations. The domestic institutional configurations of the so-called newly industrializing countries (NICs) also drew attention to the reasons why states could manage to undertake industrial policies in the ways they did.Footnote73 All this came at a time of new thinking about the merits of free trade, in which activist trade policies were shown to possibly advantage some countries relative to their competitors especially in high-technology industries.Footnote74 As today, so then, high-technology industries, such as semiconductors, were at the epicenter of controversies about the fairness of then perceived Japanese activism.Footnote75 Asia is again center stage in these policy concerns, such as those about the foundational global value chain in semiconductors that fuel high-technology production and consumption. Between 2016 and 2020, 26 economies in Asia and the Pacific accounted for about 84% of total world integrated circuit exports.Footnote76 They also accounted for about 62% of total world electrical and optical equipment exports in 2021. Long mindful of their positions in the global political economy, all this suggests that for states of all stripes across Asia “developmentalism is not dead,” picking winners is still of interest, and, as in the past for other strategic sectors so also for the foreseeable future, Asian states will remain involved in shaping the frontiers of space technologies to their home advantage.Footnote77 Industrial policy motivations have clearly been a driver of South Korea’s expanding space program, and Kristi Govella points out the South Korean government has considered potential commercial opportunities when making decisions about how to structure its engagement with regional space institutions. The maxim of “rich country, strong army” pervades the intellectual landscape of prominent works, alerting us that for many countries in Asia the synergistic pathway to security comes through technology and the economy. These symbiotic economic-security fundamentals resonate in both regional and country-specific works.Footnote78 Japanese planners, for example, have long enhanced Japan’s technological edge by stimulating the interdiffusion of civil-military applications and the nurturance of a military-commercial axis.Footnote79 While not inattentive to the policy tradeoffs that must be made in practice, the Japanese state remains consistent in the twin goals maximizing both its military and its bargaining power through economic means.Footnote80 China is held up as a techno-security state – innovation-centered, security-maximizing – at a historic moment of bipolarity in world politics in which both China and the U.S. see the economic-security nexus as a pivotal peacetime battleground.Footnote81 These themes resonate also in the idea of geoeconomics – best thought of as “the logic of war in the grammar of commerce” – that would hold in a world of territorial states seeking technological innovation not just for its own sake but to explicitly maximize benefits within their own boundaries.Footnote82 With themes that echo seminal works on economic-security linkages,Footnote83 the practice of geoeconomics means the use of economic instruments in defense of national interests and geopolitical gain while being watchful of the impact on the home country of others doing exactly the same.”Footnote84 Whether geoeconomics is criticized or refined as an idea,Footnote85 is considered relevant or irrelevant to state conduct, or even goes in and out of fashion, its core continues to resonate in lively debates about the nature of statecraft in the IR of Asia.Footnote86 The case of space in South Korea is instructive along these themes. Given that the economics of the space industry require a long-term commitment with massive investments, Wonjae Hwang’s principal argument is in line with the idea of the developmental state. The South Korean government is taking a lead role in developing the space industry, and its core geoeconomic strategy in space manifests in the promotion of public–private partnerships. By building a strong governing structure within the public sector, coordinating with selective private partners, assisting them with financial support and technology transfer, the government has built strong partnerships with private firms in the space industry. There are plans to establish also a guiding public institution, which can make far-sighted plans for space development, implement the plans, and control associated institutions. As a latecomer to the space race but as a critical player in the global supply chains in the space industry, he also discusses how South Korea has promoted international partnerships with other space powers such as the U.S., EU, India, Australia, and the UAE. Complex Regional Interdependence Second, Asian economies and their integration into the international system makes them pivotal players. But indicators suggest that regional economic integration is important too.Footnote87 A regional cooperation and integration index, which tracks and meshes key dimensions across all principal regions of the world is noteworthy.Footnote88 In 2020, the index in which higher values mean greater regional integration, the EU was recorded at 0.59, North America at 0.49, and Asia and the Pacific at 0.43. This puts the Asian region on par with its peers in the global political economy. As concerns about supply chain vulnerabilities rise worldwide, less visible forces behind Asian economic fusion will also rise to shape strategies. In 2014, production networks were acknowledged as outlets for new modes of interstate friction such as between Japan and China but were still seen as reinforcing traditional commercial liberal arguments.Footnote89 Over time, despite the dramatic expansion of global supply chains involving all actors in the region over, the phenomenon remained underappreciated. But work on point finds that they may be more distinct, complex, and unique mechanisms of interdependence, and could well affect prospects for interstate conflict and cooperation in and out of the region.Footnote90 Their very presence complicates blustering proclamations of decoupling or derisking in both regional and global politics. States across Asia remain watchful about trade and investment agreements to enhance their regional and international economic prospects.Footnote91 Whatever the criticisms about this institutional proliferation, it draws attention to Asian standing and strategies relative to other regions. Among the most high-profile developments is the Regional Comprehensive Economic Partnership (RCEP), with 15 members including 10 ASEAN countries as well as Australia, China, Japan, New Zealand, and South Korea.Footnote92 China and Japan, respectively, account for around 48% and 19% of the RCEP GDP.Footnote93 RCEP’s comparative indicators put it ahead of its peer agreements, with 28% of global trade, 31% of the share of global GDP, and about 30% of world populationFootnote94 The agreement’s economic significance was deemed considerable, with one estimate suggesting it could generate over $200 billion annually to world income, and $500 billion to world trade by 2030.Footnote95 The duality of space technology also creates new dynamics for the IR of space in Asia. Even agreements that are technically about trade can be seen as opportunities to enhance alliances and alter the broader security context.Footnote96 This thinking should be borne firmly in mind in analyses of regional space governance, which is nested in broader international legal and normative frameworks. The degree of institutional density in an issue area, such as preexisting rules or regimes on point, may condition the type of diplomacy countries like China pursue in projects from space stations to lunar research stations.Footnote97 It also affects how countries like Japan can use institutional constructs for political reassurance in the region.Footnote98 At present, two markedly different Asian institutions, the China-led Asia Pacific Regional Space Organization (APSCO) and the Japan-led Asia-Pacific Regional Space Agency Forum (APRSAF) mark diplomatic prospects for the regional dynamics of collaboration and competition stretched over decades.Footnote99 Asia also leads other regions with two other space-centered institutions, the India-led Centre for Space Science Technology and Education in the Asia-Pacific (CSSTEAP) and the China-led Regional Centre for Space Science Technology and Education in the Asia-Pacific. Kristi Govella argues that these institutions have been shaped by broader geopolitical dynamics in the region, and that rising space players like South Korea carefully choose how to engage with these regional institutions on the basis of economic, security, and institutional factors. She further claims that diplomatic engagement with regional space institutions can complement states’ security alliances and bolster relationships with other like-minded strategic partners. Future patterns of regional cooperation will also continue to shape and be shaped by nonhierarchical international regime complexity in the space domain.Footnote100 Current trajectories suggest scenarios in which states’ à la carte approaches affect the integrity of existing cooperative multilateral space law and processes. Security Dynamics and Alliances Third, there is evidence for longstanding expectations that Asia’s economic rise would lead to increased military capacities and modernizationFootnote101 The grouping of Asia and Oceania stands out in this respect.Footnote102 In 2022, it accounted for about $575 billion in military spending, with China, Japan, and South Korea making up 70% of that. This figure is second only to North America with over $900 billion of military spending, the bulk of which is by the United States. Estimates between 2018 and 2022 also suggest that Asia and Oceania accounted for 41% of the total global volume of major arms, the largest compared to other regions; and, with 11% of the total, India is the largest arms importer of all countries. All this should be set against the politics of a region with the busiest sea lanes, nine of the ten largest ports, seven of the world’s largest standing militaries, and five of the world’s declared nuclear nations.Footnote103 The region is also marked by an intensifying bilateral security competition between the U.S. and China that increases the risk of inadvertent escalation of hostilities, entangling conventional, nuclear, and space capabilities.Footnote104 The U.S. has stated outright that it will consider the use of nuclear weapons in the event of any kind of a “significant” nonnuclear strategic attack on its or its allies’ nuclear forces as well as “their command and control, or warning and attack assessment capabilities” whose nodes run in and through space.Footnote105 In believing that the U.S. seeks to lower the threshold for nuclear use and so degrade its conventional strength China is responding by expanding and modernizing both its conventional and nuclear capabilities.Footnote106 A new arms race may well be underway, enmeshing old and new warfighting domains like space and affecting prospects for arms control and strategic stability. Amid these shifting military postures and perceptions, security architectures matter and have received significant attention for their origins, shapes, consequences, and transformations in the IR of Asia.Footnote107 If, prior to the 1990s, Asia was “infertile ground” for security institutions today it seems the opposite is true; new security institutions such as QUAD have come to stand alongside old ones like the ASEAN Regional Forum.Footnote108 The United States is prominent in the region for its creation of a network of bilateral alliances seen not just as instruments of containment against rivals but also as instruments of control over allies.Footnote109 As the view of space as a warfighting domain embeds itself in regional security architectures formal U.S. allies such as Japan and South Korea in the region are coalescing, connecting and responding in distinct ways.Footnote110 As well, they are motivated by other security threats and dynamics – territorial disputes and politics, North Korean missile threats and its other purported scientific missions into space – that have sobered prospects for stability in regional and global politics. Asia is leading the world in how some of these space-centric alliance transformations are coming about, and how they may affect military operations such as communication and intelligence gathering. In practice, the U.S.-led military alliances also serve as contracts in which, while one component is certainly a military commitment, there is also agreement about a continuous (and changing) exchange of space goods and services.Footnote111 The U.S.- Japan Alliance, with its attendant geoeconomic and geopolitical elements in play, is the first bilateral one in Asia to extend to the space domain.Footnote112 Although its legal foundations need far greater clarity in light of existing international space law and policy, as well as shifting nuclear postures, this extension is nevertheless becoming more concrete with the formation of a new subordinate command in Japan for the U.S. Space Force.Footnote113 But these pronounced changes on the military side sit alongside others; the Japanese state is also continuing to bargain to enmesh its civilian and commercial space interests under the umbrella of the alliance, such as those related to GPS or astronauts on the moon. A similar story is unfolding under the U.S.-Korea Alliance. As Scott Snyder notes in this symposium, the combination of South Korea’s entry into the space launch and satellite sectors and the emergence of the Sino-U.S. geostrategic competition have made it possible for both countries to pursue bilateral cooperation within the alliance. Space cooperation within the alliance brings South Korea on board to support U.S.-led development of international norms for use of space and strengthens the U.S. space-based military infrastructure to protect South Korea from adversary threats while also assisting South Korea’s long-term aspirations to gain a part of the commercial space sector. There are also implications for the hub-and-spoke model of U.S. alliances in Asia. It may not have originally encouraged trust and interactions between quasi-allies such as Japan and South Korea that are not directly allied but share the United States (hub) as a common ally. But this model may be transforming in the space domain. Tongfi Kim explains that South Korea–Japan relations, traditionally the weakest link in U.S.–Japan–South Korea trilateral cooperation, have made remarkable progress since the inauguration of South Korean President Yoon Suk Yeol in May 2022. Due to the three states’ increasing focus on space security and geopolitical development in East Asia, Kim argues, space cooperation is one of the most promising paths for institutionalizing the trilateral cooperation. What are the Thematic Takeaways? Asian states are not just passive recipients in the new space race but proactive and high-profile shapers of the DCM trends in it. They represent the new forces of democratization, which opens up diplomatic opportunities for new alignments in pursuit of material and normative quests. They know the unprecedented trends in space commercialization can boost their industrial base and position them for economic prosperity in the new frontier. They are attuned to how space militarization can give them a military edge and, carried to its extreme, how weaponization can dash prospects for strategic stability around and above us. A few takeaways stand out. The Gravity of the International Relations of Space Has Shifted to Asia Asia leads all other regions of the world with the highest concentration of independent and autonomous sovereign states – China, Japan, India, South Korea, North Korea – who possess some of the most advanced capabilities for civilian, commercial, and military space. They do not act in unison but are guided by their own national imperatives. Along with Australia and New Zealand, they are also joined by a wide variety of states in Southeast, South, and West Asia who aim for niche capabilities or capitalize on geographic locations. The State in Asia Will Be the Prime Decision-Maker in Shaping Space Activities Consistent with the state-centric nature of the IR of Asia, both the top and emerging spacefaring powers in Asia will seek to shape and balance the DCM trends in line with their own economic and political interests. They will not be dictated to, but can be persuaded through bargaining and communication. Many will try to take advantage of commercial trends abroad while reinforcing them at home, some will try to strike a balance in the commercialization-militarization axis, but a few will attempt to shift it toward offensive purposes. Dual-Use Space Technology is Another Means to Wealth and Security for Asian States All Asian states are interested in acquiring space technology, whether through direct or indirect means, to advance their prosperity and security. This is consistent with a historic intellectual lineage in the region about staying abreast of strategic high-technology sectors that crisscross civilian and military benefits, and that promise to pull other sectors along. The intersection of the space domain with emerging and disruptive technology frontiers – AI, quantum, cyber – is also of vital interest to all principal regional actors. New Patterns of Interconnectedness May Stay the Hand of Space Conflict Space nationalism drives the principal spacefaring states to compete with others in and out of the region. But continued economic integration – trade and investment flows, resilient supply chains, and space assets that facilitate them – also underpin prospects for continued engagement among all regional players. Its disruption is of concern to regional states, as in the U.S. bid to secure critical supply chains for semiconductors worldwide. As well, regional institutions that formally and informally govern relations, including those focused on space, routinize engagements, and information exchanges among all states. U.S.-Led Alliances in Asia are at the Forefront of Transforming into Space Alliances Security institutions in Asia are important for continued dialogue in the region, and for socializing emerging players into the realities of the new space race. But the designation of space as a warfighting domain — and of the U.S. declaration about the need to protect command-and-control structures that underpin extended deterrence — has put U.S.-led alliances with Japan and South Korea at the center of transformations into space alliances. This may affect the “hub and spoke” model, with the spokes also strengthening their relations in the distant future. Much however, depends on the continued domestic political support in the U.S., Japan, and Korea for alliances and such alliance transformations in the years ahead. Asian States Will Be Pivotal to Shaping or Scuttling Prospects for Peace - in Outer Space The capabilities of Asian states make them ideal candidates for large-scale collaboration in space, as well as on the moon and beyond. Diplomatically, they are being courted in the bipolar space competition between the U.S. and China. The rules on which they operate, and who gets to write and interpret them, will matter for patterns of polarity in the IR of space. Some Asian states have responded by signing up to U.S.-led interpretations of the Outer Space Treaty in practice, such as in the Artemis Accords. Other states from Asia may move to the China-led camp with Russia for an international lunar research station. 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Defense & Security
The flags of the Russia, United States, China and are drawn on a piece of ice in the form of an Arctic iceberg against a blue sky. Conflict of interests in the Arctic, Cold War, Arctic shelf

Divided Arctic in a Divided World Order

by Rasmus Gjedssø Bertelsen

한국어로 읽기 Leer en español In Deutsch lesen Gap اقرأ بالعربية Lire en français Читать на русском Introduction Arctic order historically, currently, and in the future reflects the world order. The idea of ‘Arctic exceptionalism’ is not valid and is a poor guide for policy. During Cold War bipolarity, the Arctic was divided between the Soviet Arctic and the Nordic and North American Arctic. US victory and Soviet defeat in the Cold War led to US unipolarity and hegemony which was the basis for a circumpolar (including Russia) liberal (as opposed to realist) Arctic order with organizations, such as the Arctic Council, International Arctic Science Committee, University of the Arctic, Barents and Bering regional cooperation, all on liberal topics such as science, environment, Indigenous rights, people-to-people cooperation.Footnote1 US unipolarity and hegemony are slipping away to world order characteristics of continued US unipolarity and hegemony, Sino-American bipolarity in economics and S&T and multipolarity illustrated by BRICS+. Sino-US competition and US-Russia conflict to the extent of proxy-war in Ukraine reflect these changes. The Arctic, which is de facto divided between the US-led NATO-Arctic and the Russian Arctic, where Russia reaches out to the BRICS+ in diplomacy, economics, and S&T, reflects these changes to world order. There is wishful thinking in the West of returning to post-Cold War US unipolar and hegemonic ‘liberal world order’ or ‘rules-based order’ and the circumpolar liberal Arctic order with it. This wish is probably unrealistic for global trends in demography, economics, S&T, legitimacy, etc. Significant conflict can be expected between the US/West and China and Russia on developments in world order, with the Global South standing by. The Arctic is likely to remain divided between the US-led NATO Arctic and the Russian Arctic seeking engagement with the BRICS+ world for the future with extremely limited cooperation and risk of spill-over from the Ukraine War and other US-Russia-China conflicts. The Arctic in international order There are two common, but invalid, narratives about the Arctic, which are poor guides for policy: First, ‘Arctic exceptionalism’, that the Arctic was apart from international politics and allowed for West-Russia cooperation unlike elsewhere, especially between the Russian annexation of Crimea in 2014 and the Russian full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022. Second, a presentist discourse, where international interests in the Arctic are seen as rising in the last 15 years, driven by climate change, the Russian flag planting on the seafloor of the North Pole in 2007, and the United States Geological Survey’s assessment of oil and gas resources in 2008, north of the Arctic Circle. Rather, the Arctic has for centuries closely mirrored the international system, whether multipolar with Western colonial empires before the World Wars, bipolar Cold War between the US and the USSR, post-Cold War US unipolarity and hegemony, or the current emerging Sino-American bipolarity and multipolarity. During 2014–2022, cooperation in the Arctic was not exceptional compared to US-Russia non-proliferation cooperation, most notably with the Iran nuclear deal in 2015, or removing chemical weapons from Syria. There was extensive US-Europe-Russia and wider collaboration around the International Space Station. There was extensive energy trade and investment between Russia and Europe, most notably with the Nord Stream 1 and 2 pipelines under the Baltic Sea. The bipolar Cold War Arctic in the bipolar Cold War order Bipolarity with two superpowers standing out from all other great powers due to their demographic, economic, science and technology, military, and ideological weight and global claims, the US and the USSR, shaped the the Cold War order. Bipolar logic shaped the international order. John Mearsheimer explains well the structural logic of a nuclear-armed bipolar superpower security competition, and he points out how each superpower formed ‘bounded orders’ of allies and clients to discipline them and mobilize their resources. These bounded orders were the West for the US with its institutions, and the East Bloc for the USSR.Footnote2 This bipolar logic was also clear in the Arctic, divided between the Nordic and North American Arctic of the West and the Soviet Arctic by the Iron Curtain in Europe and the Ice Curtain in the Bering Strait. Circumpolar Arctic cooperation was limited to the Polar Bear Treaty of 1973 between the USSR, Norway, Kingdom of Denmark, Canada, and the US, Norwegian Soviet joint fisheries management in the Barents Sea, and some Bering Strait cooperation. The Arctic was exceptionally militarized during the Cold War driven by the mutual nuclear deterrence between the US and the USSR, where the Arctic played a central role for geostrategic and technological reasons. The Arctic was the shortest flight path for bombers and missiles, and sea ice offered cover for nuclear ballistic submarines. This exceptional militarization of the Arctic harmed the human security of Arctic local and indigenous communities through forced displacement, security service surveillance, and pollution, including notable nuclear accidents, as the 1968 B52 bomber crash off Northwest Greenland with four H-bombs causing extensive radioactive contamination of much Soviet nuclear material in and around the Kola Peninsula, including sunken submarines with nuclear fuel or weapons on board.Footnote3 Circumpolar liberal Arctic order under US unipolarity The Cold War ended with US victory and Soviet defeat and dissolution, also caused by the US pressuring the USSR into a strategic nuclear arms race, that the Soviet economy could not support. US Navy operations near the Soviet Northern Fleet nuclear bastion around the Kola Peninsula were an important part of this pressure.Footnote4 The Arctic was also part of Mikhail Gorbachev’s attempt to save the USSR by reform and lowering external tension. Gorbachev called the Arctic as a zone of peace, environmental protection and scientific collaboration in his 1987 Murmansk speech, in contrast to being at the heart of a strategic nuclear arms race with the US, which the USSR could not sustain. Gorbachev’s reforms failed to avert the dissolution of the USSR and deep socio-economic, public health, and law and order crisis in Russian society during the 1990s. The Russian State withdrew to a significant extent from its Arctic, leaving military facilities and society behind. Sino-American bipolarity comes to the Arctic The relative distribution of comprehensive material and immaterial power of the strongest States shapes international order. States stay the predominant actors since the emergence of a state system, not denying powerful non-State actors historically and today. The US unipolarity after the Cold War was an exceptional time of international history and not the ‘End of History’ as believed by some quarters in the West (Fukuyama). History is returning to normal with the return of major centres of economic output and science and technology outside the West. Ironically, US unipolarity laid the foundation for the ‘Return of history’, rather than the ‘End of History’. Since the 1990s, the world experienced globalization with economic, science and technology, and cultural integration. The US as the sole superpower provided public goods and facilitated and coordinated many of these economic, scientific, and technological, and cultural flows. Globalization undermined US unipolarity, facilitating the faster relative growth of non-Western States. China’s export-oriented growth, returning it to its historical position as one of the world’s largest economies is the most important dimension for changes to world order. In parallel, other emerging markets have grown adding multipolar dimensions to international order. International Relations theory serves to think about how to respond to the return of China. About 20–25 years ago, Professor Joseph S. Nye (Harvard University) and Professor John Mearsheimer (University of Chicago) articulated two major approaches with coherent theoretical and strategic visions for the Sino-American relationship. Nye, as a liberal institutionalist scholar and policymaker in the Bill Clinton Administration, presented a vision of ‘integrate, but hedge’. China integrated in the US-led world economy as member state of the World Trade Organization, while the US hedged against the rise of China by reinforcing its alliance with Japan.Footnote5 There were strong US and Western liberal expectations of Chinese economic growth and openness leading to political openness and reform. These expectations proved to be belied and ethnocentric. Mearsheimer, in line with his offensive realist theory, clearly outlined how the US had to keep China from becoming a regional hegemon in East Asia through a containment strategy.Footnote6 The US’ China strategy has shifted from the Nye perspective to the Mearsheimer perspective, while Mearsheimer himself is ostracized for his valid, but politically unacceptable, analysis of the Ukraine War. Mearsheimer explains how Sino-American bipolarity works with realist great power State security competition, and how competing great powers form their ‘bounded orders’ of allies and clients to discipline and mobilize these.Footnote7 The US is shaping a NATO+ order of the NATO member states and Australia, New Zealand, Japan, and South Korea. The US is increasingly engaging in trade and technology wars with China to slow down its growth rate, clearly denying its access to fundamental technologies of future knowledge-based economies. A realist focus on relative gains explains US policy to reduce China’s growth rate. China has a population more than three times that of the US with an absolute economy approaching the US economy. The US cannot allow China to catch up relatively with it, as that would imply a much larger Chinese economy than that of the US. Liberals (politically and theoretically) would ascribe the US policy to different domestic political systems, but the logic of anarchy points out how domestic political systems are of secondary concern, and empirically the US firmly bypassed and disciplined the previous Anglo-Saxon superpower, Britain. US-India relations can be expected to deteriorate with India’s socio-economic development, where India has a much younger population than China with great economic growth potential. China predicted the US abandoning its own open and globalized international economic policy out of concern for China’s relative rise to the US. China pursued a domestic and international economic policy much less dependent on US benevolence. In the domestic sphere, China pursued an economy based on domestic demand. Externally, China built up a parallel international economic and science and technology system with the Belt and Road Initiative with the Asian Infrastructure Investment Bank. Other bodies, such as the Shanghai Cooperation Organization in security reflect parallel orders and institutions to the US-led Western institutions. Sino-American bipolarity also became clear in the Arctic about 10–15 years ago. China started to appear as a diplomatic, economic, science and technology actor in the Arctic. Western surprise and consternation to this development reflects the great difficulties many Westerners have in facing a world, where the Rest takes an interest in the West, and not only the West taking an interest in the Rest as during centuries of imperialism and colonialism. It should not be surprising that China as one of the world’s two largest national economies and science and technology systems (with the US) has interests in the Arctic, or anywhere else in the world. The US is globally present in politics, defence, diplomacy, economics, science and technology, culture, etc. The unfortunate Chinese term of ‘near-Arctic State’ to legitimize Chinese involvement in the Arctic drew much Western ridicule and opposition. In comparison, the US and the West seem to be ‘near-everywhere’ States. One place where the Sino-American bipolar logic appeared soon and clearly has been the Kingdom of Denmark with the North Atlantic and Arctic overseas autonomies of the Faroe Islands and Greenland. The US applies pressure on the Kingdom of Denmark to exclude Chinese investment, science and technology, in line with Mearsheimer’s argument of a superpower building bounded orders to mobilize and discipline allies and clients in security competition with a competing great or superpower. The Faroe Islands are located between Iceland, Norway, and Scotland. They are centrally placed in the Greenland-Iceland-UK Gap controlling North-South access and blocking the Soviet-Russian Northern Fleet going south for NATO or the US and NATO navies going north for USSR/Russia. The Faroe Islands are becoming increasingly independent from Denmark. Huawei has long been a partner for the Faroese telecom company, which planned to continue with Huawei for 5G. This partnership came under increasing scrutiny from Danish and US sides. The Chinese ambassador to Copenhagen during a visit to the Faroe Islands linked the Faroe Islands choosing Huawei with prospects for a Sino-Faroese free trade agreement (the Faroe Islands are outside the EU and pursue an independent trade policy).Footnote8 The US ambassador to Copenhagen publicly spoke strongly against the Faroe Islands collaborating with Huawei for 5 G.Footnote9 Greenland is geographically North American (remember the Monroe Doctrine), crucial to US (North American) homeland defence, and pursuing independence from the Kingdom of Denmark. Greenland and China have for some time eyed each other for investment and science and technology opportunities. Greenlandic independence primarily rests on economic independence from Denmark and human capital. The economic independence should be through, among other domains, mining, where China and Chinese companies were considered as very important likely investors. Copenhagen regarded Sino-Greenlandic mutual interest with great suspicion for a long time, which was evident from the report on Greenlandic mining from 2014.Footnote10 In 2014, the Royal Danish Navy abandoned Grønnedal, a small, remote old naval facility, established by the US during the Second World War, which was put up for sale. A Chinese mining company showed interest in the facility as a logistics hub for future operations in Greenland. The Danish government promptly took the facility off the market maintaining a token naval presence.Footnote11 Developing Greenlandic tourism requires upgrading the airport infrastructure, which is an enormous project for a nation of 57,000 on a 2 M km2 island. One of the finalists to an international tender was the China Construction Communication Company (4C), which might also have provided financing.Footnote12 The Danish government convinced the Greenlandic government to accept a Danish financing (with a Danish stake) of the renovated and new airports against choosing a Danish construction company.Footnote13 The Greenlandic government was reshaped over this intervention with a coalition party leaving in protest over accepting such Danish interference in Greenlandic affairs. In 2017, China publicly presented its interest in a research station in Greenland, including a satellite ground station, which the Government of Greenland might have been positive towards.Footnote14 This idea has never materialized, first probably delayed by the COVID-19 pandemic, but Denmark and the US would never accept a Chinese research station and/or satellite station in Greenland. The US government has made its pressure on the Danish government public, through former Secretary of Defense, General Jim Mattis.Footnote15 China and Iceland spearheaded Sino-Nordic Arctic research cooperation from the official visit of Chinese premier Wen Jiabao to Iceland in 2012. In 2013, the China Nordic Arctic Research Center was founded, a virtual centre of Chinese and Nordic institutions hosted by the Polar Research Institute of China in Shanghai. CNARC has hosted an annual symposium between China and a Nordic country as well as researcher exchange. Today, Sweden has withdrawn from CNARC, and Denmark does not participate, as the participating Nordic Institute of Asian Studies at the University of Copenhagen has been closed. PRIC and RANNÍS (The Icelandic Center for Research, equivalent to Research Council) held the groundbreaking ceremony for the construction of the China-Iceland Aurora Observatory, now China Iceland Arctic Observatory, at Kárhóll, Northeast Iceland, in June 2014, which I attended. The Observatory opened formally—although unfinished—in October 2018. This collaboration had been hampered by the COVID-19 pandemic and negligence from central authorities and research institutions in the capital, Reykjavik. Today, Iceland is under pressure from the US, including a recent visit by US Congressional staffers, to close CIAO.Footnote16 US-Russia Eastern European security competition divides the Arctic US-Russia security competition, especially in Eastern Europe, became increasingly clear from around 2007–2008. In 2007, Russian President Vladimir Putin delivered a speech at the Munich Security Conference, where he unsurprisingly denounced US unipolarity. Russia had rejected US unipolarity and called for multipolarity since the Primakov Doctrine of the 1990s calling for Russia, China, and India to balance the US. In spring 2008, at the initiative of the US—and with French and German reservations—the NATO Bucharest summit invited Georgia and Ukraine to become member states. In the autumn, fighting broke out between Georgia and Russian forces in the separatist enclaves of Abkhazia and South Ossetia leading to Georgia’s defeat. In autumn 2013, the EU proposed an agreement to Ukraine, which forced Ukraine to choose between Russia and the EU. The Ukrainian President rejected the EU’s proposal, leading to popular protests met with government violence and eventually the President fleeing the country. Russia intervened annexing Crimea and supporting an insurgency in the Donbas.Footnote17 In December 2021, Russia proposed a treaty to the US blocking former Soviet Republics from joining NATO and rolling back NATO troops and equipment in Central and Eastern Europe, which was rejected by the US and allies in January 2022. On 24 February 2022, Russia launched a full-scale invasion of Ukraine, which had led to a war of attrition between Russia and Ukraine. The West extends wide-ranging political, military, economic, and further support to Ukraine and tries to isolate Russia as much as possible. The Rest of the world follows Western policy of isolating Russia to a very limited extent. The Russian annexation of Crimea affected the Arctic in limited ways. The West stopped military dialogues with Russia in the Arctic Security Forces Roundtable and Arctic Chiefs of Defense Forum. The West imposed sanctions on Russian Arctic energy projects, as the US $27 billion Yamal LNG project, which initially had Russian Novatek (60 per cent), French Total (20 per cent), and China National Petroleum Cooperation (20 per cent) ownership. Sanctions forced Novatek to sell 9.9 per cent to the Chinese government’s Silk Road Fund and rely on Chinese bank funding. Russia responded to these sanctions with counter sanctions on Western food exports to Russia, which also affected some Arctic seafood export to Russia. Russia accepted Faroese salmon exports, which led to a boom in Faroese economy. In 2014, there was some protests in the Arctic Council from the Chair, Canada. Otherwise, Arctic Council and other scientific, people-to-people, cooperation continued between Russia and the seven other Arctic States. For Northern Norway, extensive regional cooperation in the Barents region continued. The Russian full-scale invasion of Ukraine led to an almost complete Western cessation of Arctic collaboration with Russia. The other seven Arctic countries refused to collaborate with Russia in the Arctic Council, chaired by Russia 2021–2023. The Seven—now all NATO member states—Arctic Council member states have since backed down significantly. The Arctic Council was always more important to them than to Russia, suggesting that this Western brinkmanship was poorly thought through. There are extensive Western sanctions against the Russian economy, including against Russian Arctic energy projects, which were a key basis for developing the Russian Arctic. Russia had sought to develop a Europe-Russia-East Asia energy system with Russian Arctic oil and gas being exported both West to Europe and East to East Asia and with balanced Western and East Asian investments.Footnote18 The West has almost completely cut science and technology relations with Russia, also in the Arctic. The rare exceptions to continued Arctic science collaboration between West and Russia are for instance, the Norway-Russia Barents Sea Fisheries Commission because Norway also depends on this collaboration. The US continues more academic collaboration with Russia than European countries allow themselves; for instance, receiving Russian Fulbright professors. Norway pursued an extensive regional cooperation policy with Russia, Finland, and Sweden in the Barents Region since 1993 with much support for cross-border people-to-people exchange for youth, in education, academia, culture, environment, business development, and further. This collaboration built extensive insight, experience, networks, and access in Russia at North Norwegian institutions, as UiT The Arctic University of Norway, UNN The University Hospital of Northern Norway, the Norwegian Polar Institute, the Arctic Frontiers Conference, businesses such as Akvaplan-Niva marine environmental consultancy, and in academia, civil society, education, and government. The border town of Kirkenes depended for about a third of its economic turnover on trade with Russia. These connections are now almost completely cut by Norwegian government policy. Russian society and politics did become much more closed and authoritarian during this period, but that was for internal political reasons and not directed against Norway. Personally, I had successful high-level academic cooperation with some of the key Russian academic institutions funded by Norwegian public funds until they were forbidden by Norwegian government policy after the Russian invasion of Ukraine. My last personal visit to Moscow was in December 2019, and I was planning to visit with a sizeable group of Norwegian faculty and PhD candidates in April 2020, postponed due to the COVID-19 pandemic. The rapid division of world order in a NATO+ and a BRICS++ world The world is separating into a NATO+ grouping of NATO countries and Australia, New Zealand, Japan, and South Korea, under clear US leadership, and the Rest. The Rest, I call BRICS++ for the BRICS+ grouping and many other countries. This separation is clear through demography, economy, and science and technology. Humanity is about 8 billion people, compared to the West, which is about 1 billion, making it a small minority. Humanity is expected to grow to 10 billion, where the West will remain at about 1 billion, a shrinking small minority. The dominance of the West has rested on economic development and science and technology, translated into military force, with a shrinking demographic share of the world economy, scientific and technological development and relative power shifts from the West to the Rest. Legitimacy and credibility divisions are also clearly visible between the NATO+ and the BRICS++ worlds concerning the war in Ukraine, where the West is astonished by its own isolation. To great surprise, the Rest of the world have not followed the West’s attempts to isolate Russia diplomatically and economically. This rejection of the West’s position was clear from the very first UN Security Council debate on the Russian invasion of Ukraine on 24 February 2022. Russian veto and Chinese and Indian abstentions were not surprising, but the abstention by the United Arab Emirates was remarkable considering the close security and other partnerships between the GCC countries and the US and historically the UK. The speech during the debate on 21 February 2022, a few days prior, by the Kenyan ambassador to the Security Council, condemning Russia’s recognition of breakaway regions but reminding that other UNSC permanent members had also violated international law, showed the lack of Western credibility and legitimacy on the issue.Footnote19 Western credibility and legitimacy have eroded further by supporting Israel’s genocide in Gaza since the 7 October 2023 Hamas attack on Israel. The Division of the Arctic in a NATO Arctic and Russian BRICS++ Arctic. The effects of world order on the Arctic are clear, applying the analytical lenses of unipolar, bipolar, and multipolar traits of world order to the Arctic. The world is increasingly becoming Sino-American bipolar, where the US seeks to maintain unipolarity through a global containment strategy of China. This struggle is also evident in the Arctic; for instance, US pressure on the Kingdom of Denmark to exclude Chinese investment, science and technology in the Faroe Islands and Greenland. The US keeps up an ever-stronger anti-Chinese Arctic discourse from Secretary of State Mike Pompeo’s 2019 speech in Rovaniemi, Finland, to US Senator Lisa Murkowski at the Arctic Circle Assembly in Reykjavik in 2024. Russia has opposed US unipolarity since the 1990s, seeking multipolarity. The conflict between US and Russian multipolarity ultimately escalated via the 2014 annexation of Crimea, the 2022 invasion of Ukraine and the proxy war in Ukraine. This conflict has led to an almost complete division of the Arctic into NATO-Arctic (collaborating with the wider NATO+ world and further) and the Russian Arctic. Russia reaches out all it can diplomatically, economically, and in science and technology to the BRICS++ world, especially China and India. The Rest of the World seems restrained from pursuing Russian Arctic opportunities by the risk of US and Western secondary sanctions and other NATO Arctic pushbacks. Conclusion: looking forward for world and Arctic order The world is—as usual for international history—marked by the struggle over the world order among the strongest State actors. This struggle was forgotten especially by European observers during the post-Cold War era, with the illusion of End of History and confounding globalization and modernization with Westernization. Instead, we have had the Return of History and the return of historically very large non-Western economic, science and technology actors as China, followed by others. The current struggle over the world order also shapes the Arctic, as was historically clear, especially during the Second World War and the Cold War. The US is determined to prolong post-Cold War unipolar dominance expressed as ‘rules-based order’, where the US defines the rules, to whom, and when they apply. Europe has found an apparently comfortable and completely dependent position in this US-led order. The Rest of the World less so, with China and Russia explicitly rejecting this US-led order. The conflict over world order between the US and its bounded order in the NATO+ world in Europe, Oceania, and East Asia and the Rest of the World, can only be expected to escalate. The US must either stop Chinese economic, science and technology development (and later other peer competitors), or demographics, economy, science and technology will lead to a more bipolar and multipolar world. Europe by its dependence on the US is forced to follow this US strategy. The war in Ukraine can lead to a frozen conflict, where the overall Russia-West relationship remains highly conflictual, including in the Arctic. Ukrainian defeat or a negotiated settlement with a neutralized Ukraine and cessation of territory to Russia will also probably lead to a decadal severance of economic, science and technology, people-to-people ties between Russia and the West, including in the Arctic. A Russian defeat is unlikely because of difference in Russian and Ukrainian manpower and resources. China is unlikely to allow Russia to succumb to the US, which would put defeated Russia on China’s Northern frontier in China’s own conflict with the US. All in all, world order seems highly conflictual and with increased separation between the NATO+ and the BRICS++ world, which will only bring humanity more conflict and less economic development and growth, unlike the age of post-Cold War globalization. This division will be replicated in the Arctic. Disclosure statementNo potential conflict of interest was reported by the author(s).Additional informationNotes on contributorsRasmus Gjedssø Bertelsen is Professor at UiT The Arctic University of Norway. Views expressed are personal. Notes 1. Rasmus Gjedssø Bertelsen, ‘Unipolarity and Order in the Arctic’. Nina Græger, Bertel Heurlin, Ole Wæver, Anders Wivel, (Eds.), Polarity in International Relations. Governance, Security and Development, Palgrave Macmillan, Cham, 2022 at https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-05505-8_16. 2. John J. Mearsheimer, ‘Bound to Fail: The Rise and Fall of the Liberal International Order’, International Security, 43 (4), 2019, pp. 7–50 at https://doi.org/10.1162/isec_a_00342 3. George Lindsey, ‘Strategic Stability in the Arctic’, Adelphi Papers 241, International Institute for Strategic Studies, 1989. 4. Steven E. Miller, ‘The Return of the Strategic Arctic’, in The Arctic Yearbook, 2023 at https://arcticyearbook.com/images/yearbook/2022/Commentaries/6C_AY2022_Miller.pdf. 5. Joseph S. Nye, ‘The Challenge of China’, in Stephen Van Evera (Ed.) How to Make America Safe: New Policies for National Security, The Tobin Project, Cambridge, MA 2006 at https://tobinproject.org/sites/default/files/assets/Make_America_Safe_The_Challenge_Of_China.pdf. 6. John J. Mearsheimer, ‘The Rise of China Will Not Be Peaceful at All’, The Australian, 18 November 2005 at https://www.mearsheimer.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/06/The-Australian-November-18-2005.pdf. 7. John J. Mearsheimer, ‘Bound to Fail: The Rise and Fall of the Liberal International Order’, International Security, 43 (4), pp. 7–50, 2019 athttps://doi.org/10.1162/isec_a_00342. 8. Thomas Foght, ‘Hemmelig lydoptagelse: Kina pressede Færøerne til at vælge Huawei’ [Secret Sound Recording: China Pressured the Faroe Islands to Choose Huawei]. Danmarks Radio, 2019 at https://www.dr.dk/nyheder/indland/hemmelig-lydoptagelse-kina-pressede-faeroeerne-til-vaelge-huawei. 9. Adam Satariano, ‘At the Edge of the World, a New Battleground for the US and China’, New York Times, 2019 at https://www.nytimes.com/2019/12/20/technology/faroe-islands-huawei-china-us.html. 10. The Committee for Greenlandic Mineral Resources to the Benefit of Society, ‘To the Benefit of Greenland’. Ilisimatusarfik-University of Greenland; University of Copenhagen, 2014 at https://vbn.aau.dk/ws/files/208241864/To_the_benefit_of_Greenland.pdf. 11. Martin Breum, ‘Analyse: Stoppede Danmarks statsminister kinesisk opkøb i Grønland?’ [Analysis: Did the Danish Prime Minister Stop Chinese Acquisition in Greenland?]. High North News, 2018 at https://www.highnorthnews.com/nb/analyse-stoppede-danmarks-statsminister-kinesisk-opkob-i-gronland. 12. Teis Jensen, ‘Greenland shortlists Chinese company for airport construction despite Denmark’s concerns’, Reuters, 2018 at https://www.reuters.com/article/world/greenland-shortlists-chinese-company-for-airport-construction-despite-denmarks-idUSKBN1H32XG/. 13. Statsministeriet, ‘Aftale mellem regeringen og Naalakkersuisut om dansk engagement i lufthavnsprojektet i Grønland og styrket erhvervssamarbejde mellem Danmark og Grønland’ [Agreement Between the [Danish] Government and Naalakkersuisut [Government of Greenland] on Danish Involvement in the Airport Project in Greenland and Enhanced Business Collaboration Between Denmark and Greenland] Statsministeriet. Formandens Departement, 2018 at https://www.stm.dk/media/8148/10-09-2018_aftale_mellem_regeringen_og_naalakkersuisut.pdf. 14. Martin Breum, ‘Kina vil bygge kontroversiel forskningsstation i Grønland’. [China Wants to Build Controversial Research Station in Greenland], 2017 at https://www.information.dk/udland/2017/10/kina-bygge-kontroversiel-forskningsstation-groenland. 15. Damian Paletta and Itkowitz Colby, ‘Trump Aides Look into US Purchasing Greenland after Directives from President’. The Washington Post, 2019 at https://www.washingtonpost.com/business/2019/08/16/america-first-greenland-second-is-trumps-latest-white-house-directive/. 16. ‘Letter to Anthony Blinking and Lloyd Austin’, Select Committee on the Chinese Communist Party, United States Congress, 2017 at https://democrats-selectcommitteeontheccp.house.gov/sites/evo-subsites/democrats-selectcommitteeontheccp.house.gov/files/evo-media-document/10.16.24_PRC%20dual%20use%20research%20in%20the%20Arctic__.pdf. 17. John J. Mearsheimer, ‘Why the Ukraine Crisis is the West’s Fault: The Liberal Delusions That Provoked Putin’, Foreign Affairs, September/October, 2014 at https://www.mearsheimer.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/06/Why-the-Ukraine-Crisis-Is.pdf. 18. Mariia Kobzeva and Rasmus Gjedssø Bertelsen, ‘European-Russian-Chinese Arctic Energy System’,in Xing Li (Ed) China-EU Relations in a New Era of Global Transformation, London: Routledge, London, 2021, 22p. 19. Martin Kimani, ‘Statement by Amb. Martin Kimani, during the Security Council Urgent Meeting on the Situation in Ukraine’, The Permanent Mission of the Republic of Kenya, United Nations Security Council, February 2022 at https://www.un.int/kenya/sites/www.un.int/files/Kenya/kenya_statement_during_urgent_meeting_on_on_ukraine_21_february_2022_at_2100.pdf.

Defense & Security
Black Sea marked with Red Circle on Realistic Map.

War in the Black Sea: The revival of the Jeune École?

by Tobias Kollakowski

한국어로 읽기 Leer en español In Deutsch lesen Gap اقرأ بالعربية Lire en français Читать на русском ABSTRACT This article analyses the naval dimension of the Russo-Ukrainian War in order to examine in which ways Ukraine’s approach to naval warfare in the Black Sea fits with Jeune École concepts – one of the leading naval strategic schools of thought. Having elaborated on the considerable success Ukraine has been able to achieve by applying a Jeune École approach and having explained the limits of Jeune École thinking in the conflict at sea, the article argues that Ukraine should be careful when considering to evolve the war at sea into a symmetrical conflict between conventional fleets.ARTICLE HISTORY Received 7 July 2024; Accepted 18 February 2025KEYWORDS War in the Black Sea; Jeune École; Russo-Ukrainian War; naval strategy; Ukrainian Navy The war that has been raging in the Black Sea since February 2022 is not a clash of titans. Its predominant characteristic are not naval battles between conventional fleets but, on the contrary, the absence of such engagements. Furthermore, as subsequent sections will further detail, most of these actions take place in the littoral. While the maritime dimension of the full-scale Russo-Ukrainian War has joined the Indo-Pakistani Naval War of 1971 and the 1982 Falklands War as among the most destructive naval wars since the end of WW2, the way in which it is waged involves coastal-defence batteries, pin prick attacks by uncrewed aerial systems (UAS), air-launched missile strikes and an asymmetric campaign carried out by uncrewed surface vehicles (USV). Not least important, the divergence between asymmetric and conventional naval warfare has not only informed the ways in which military actions have been carried out. Rather, it goes to the heart of a much larger debate over Ukraine’s fleet design and naval strategy. In this debate between adherents of a blue-water school of thought and advocates of the so-called ‘mosquito fleet’, both fractions have argued over the most appropriate develop- ment of the Ukrainian Navy and its future capabilities. To adopt an analytical framework that is well-suited to the nature of the conflict, both lethal and inter- state in the Black Sea and intellectual and within Ukraine’s military establishment, this article refrains from applying theories connected to prominent theoreticians associated with the blue-water school of thought (the ‘Old School’),1 such as Alfred Thayer Mahan, Philip Howard Colomb or Sir Julian Corbett.2 Literature on contem- porary naval strategy has indeed adopted concepts associated with these schools of thought, for example in the case of Japan (Corbett), the People’s Republic of China and India (Mahan).3 While blue-water concepts may prove beneficial when interpreting the oceanic ambitions and strategies of Asia’s mightiest naval powers, this article instead refers to Jeune École (Young School) naval strategic school of thought – one of the leading schools of thought in naval theory developed by 19th century French naval theoreticians and practitioners. As argued throughout this article, concepts and controversies affiliated with Jeune École (JÉ) are well-suited to explain the developments, circumstances and debates concerning the maritime theatre of the Russo-Ukrainian War. Scholars and experts have recently paid considerable attention to the mar- itime dimension of the Russo-Ukrainian War. Seth Cropsey, for example, argues that access to, and control of, the Black Sea is critical to the outcome of the war and Brent Sadler elaborates on lessons identified from the War in the Black Sea for a potential war involving Taiwan.4 Furthermore, scholars have examined the circumstances and implications of the transformation of a maritime gray zone conflict into a conventional war and the impact of the Russo-Ukrainian War on maritime commerce and the regional naval balance of power.5In a recent study, Md. Tanvir Habib and Shah Md Shamrir Al Af have also usefully explored Ukraine’s innovative usage of naval drones, tracing the lessons, conditions and implications of Ukraine’s approach to the War in the Black Sea and arguing in favour of the adoption of maritime asymmetric warfare strategies and capabilities by smaller countries.6 However, while deeply engaging in the discussion on asymmetric warfare Habib’s and Md Al Af’s analysis does not address the ‘Young School’ of naval strategic thought or matters of naval theory more generally. In contrast to the above-mentioned authors, in his review of the book Vaincre en mer au XXIe siècle, Michael Shurkin does take note of the fact that naval drones ‘perhaps breathe new life into the old vision of the Jeune École’ when he addresses the fact that the authors have not included the Russo-Ukrainian War due to the date of publication. However, given the nature of his article as a book review, Shurkin doesn’t elaborate on this idea.7 This article differs from the existing literature by embedding the War in the Black Sea and differing perceptions on the development of the navy and the appropriate fleet design within larger strategic debates discussed in naval theory. As elaborated in section six of this paper, a traditional assumption expressed by many authoritative voices has it that a JÉ approach is not a viable approach to wage war at sea, especially against an opponent enjoy- ing a much greater superiority in available means. Based on the examination of the case study of the Russo-Ukrainian War, this article shows how many debates surrounding the original 19th century JÉ also apply to the ongoing war in the Black Sea and demonstrates that Ukrainian success at sea and at the coast is closely linked with JÉ thinking. Given the length of the conflict and the great number of events at sea and onshore involving a broad range of topics, a comprehensive summary of the conflict at sea would go far beyond the scope of a single article. Consequently, maritime-related devel- opments are only covered as far as relevant for this article’s research design and to support or dismiss concepts associated with the JÉ naval strategic school of thought. This also means that this paper covers comparatively little on the actual conduct of naval operations. For the level of interpretation as applied in this article, tactics and operations are largely irrelevant. Ultimately, the debate on anti-access and area denial (A2/AD), a topic that has been covered in great depth within the two recent decades,8 has been largely omitted from this article. The reason is as follows. There is some conceptual overlap between the JÉ and the A2/AD debate – especially con- cerning the JÉ’s rebirth in form of the Soviet Molodaya Shkola (Young School). While JÉ could only influence naval policy in France for a few years at the end of the 19th century, elements of JÉ thinking gained prominence approxi- mately three decades later in the newly-established Soviet Union. Taking into consideration the harsh economic situation and the disastrous state of the navy in the early USSR and denouncing blue-water ‘Old School’ thinking as imperialist, advocates of the Molodaya Shkola favoured a naval strategy based on an inshore defence made up of small surface vessels, submarines, mines, coastal artillery and land-based aviation. In contrast to the Molodaya Shkola’s approach to use asymmetric means to counter conventionally super- ior navies that was effectively similar to the French JÉ, there were some differences between the two schools. Probably, the most significant differ- ence concerned the JÉ’s focus on offensive commerce raiding.9 However, whereas denying enemy major surface combatants access to one’s own littoral by employing small heavily armed craft qualifies as being very much in line with A2/AD, JÉ and Molodaya Shkola thinking, the same cannot be said for the extensive use of land-based systems. For example, the traditional ‘Central Mine and Artillery Position’ [RUS: TS͡ entral’naia͡ minno-artilleriĭskaia͡ pozits͡ iia͡ ], the stationary SSC-1 Sepal10 of the Cold War era and the contemporary Russian SSC- 5 Stooge [RUS designation: Bastion] and SSC-6 Sennight [RUS designation: Bal] coastal defence missile systems or Ukraine’s R-360 Neptune anti-ship missiles11 all count as essential elements of the A2/AD discourse. Conceptually, however, they fit much better into ‘coastal defence theory’ and the ‘brick-and-mortar school’ rather than the JÉ.12 Trying to cover all the facets of the naval dimension of the Russo-Ukrainian War would blur the conceptual lines between the differ- ent naval strategic schools of thought. It would deviate this article ever further away from its selected theoretical framework: the original 19th century ideas associated with JÉ thinking. This article comprises seven parts. Part one briefly summarises the princi- pal ideas of the 19th century JÉ as the analytical framework for interpreting Ukraine’s approach to the War in the Black Sea. The second section examines how Ukraine, having successfully withstood the initial Russian offensive, waged naval war against the Russian Black Sea Fleet (BSF) and how the conduct of warfare fits within JÉ thinking. Having elaborated on derivations from JÉ theory as far as commerce warfare is concerned, parts three and four elaborate on the limitations of the applicability of the theory. As shown at different points throughout the article, many essentials of the debate are remarkably similar despite a time difference of 150 years. The fifth section elaborates on the ways in which Ukraine attacks Russia’s maritime critical infrastructure and argues that Ukraine’s approach blends well with the JÉ strategic school of thought. Towards the end, the article presents ongoing debates on Ukraine’s naval future which once again reveal the long-standing aversion of naval leaders to embrace JÉ ideas. While the article does address certain aspects of the Russo-Ukraine War at various points throughout the text, it is in these concluding sections that the debate between ‘Old School’ proponents and the fraction advocating the development of the ‘mosquito fleet’ is illustrated. Readers only interested in this element of the academic discussion may wish to fast-forward to section six. Ultimately, the article argues that essential elements of JÉ thinking have demonstrated their worth as a viable naval strategy, at least on the narrow seas, and should receive more positive appreciation by inferior conflict parties. The origins of Jeune école During the 19th century, French naval thinkers had to tackle the issue of British naval supremacy that rested on a battle fleet vastly superior to its French counterpart while being confronted with the financial and industrial capacities of the British Empire and a redistribution of the military budget prioritising continental warfare as a result of the 1870–71 Franco-German War.13 As a result, JÉ proposed an approach to naval warfare that seeks to avoid the enemy’s fleet and targets the enemy’s sea lines of communication. For this purpose, Baron Richild Grivel, one of the forerunners of JÉ, had already proposed commerce raiding as the ‘the most economical for the poorest fleet’ and ‘at the same time the one most proper to restore peace, since it strikes directly [. . .] at the very source of the prosperity of the enemy’.14 The ideal unit to conduct such a kind of warfare was the cruiser. Drawing conclusions from the Napoleonic Wars, Grivel points out that the immense resources Napoleon had spent in constructing ships of the line (FRA: vaisseaux) would have been much better invested in the construction of quick and well-armed ships capable of waging ‘partisan warfare’.15 Furthermore, late 19th century technological advances played a major role in the calculations of JE supporters. Torpedoes, mines, and submarines made major surface combatants much more vulnerable,16 while the introduction of steam propulsion made naval battles between unlike opponents rather improbable.17 In combination, these developments led Admiral Théophile Aube, a founding father of JÉ, to the conclusion that the ship of the line was not the desired naval vessel for the future.18 When Aube became Naval Minister in 1886, the ideas of JÉ, focusing on means to wage asymmetric warfare,19 were, though only for a relatively short period, practically implemented: Aube halted battleship production, prioritis- ing the acquisition of cruisers, torpedo boats, and gunboats and ordering the construction of the Gymnote, the first French torpedo-equipped submarine.20 Still, there was substantial resistance against JÉ even during its heydays not least because of legal considerations. French naval officers, such as Commander Heuette and Admiral Bourgois, were strongly opposed to the blatant violations of international law JÉ was proposing as it demanded reckless and merciless commerce raiding (FRA: guerre de course).21 Fast, small and numerous – how Ukraine crippled the black sea fleet At the end of March 2022, it had become clear that Russia’s gambit for a quick offensive victory over Ukraine had ended in disaster. At sea, the Russians had achieved some success, among others achieving sea control and capturing Snake Island close to the Ukrainian shoreline, but had failed to carry out a decisive landing operation in the northwestern Black Sea. However, a few weeks after the beginning of the invasion, in April 2022, the Ukrainians employed their land- based sea denial capabilities and following attacks against Russian warships, most notably the cruiser Moskva, by Ukrainian coastal defence forces, the BSF’s position off Ukraine’s Black Sea coast could no longer be sustained.22 Subsequently, Ukraine went on the offensive. As a forward position, main- taining a presence on the island and re-supplying the deployed forces proved particularly difficult for the Russians as Ukrainian forces shelled the island from the Ukrainian coast and targeted vessels carrying out resupply runs to the island. According to different sources, the BSF suffered the loss of several smaller units as, among others, strikes carried out by Bayraktar UAS targeted Russian patrol boats and auxiliary vessels operating in proximity to Snake Island.23 In May 2022, the Russians claimed to have shot down 30 UAS in the Snake Island region in three days.24 Even if these numbers were correct, the effects that relatively cheap, mass-produced drones could exert on Russian equipment at land and at sea, which was expensive and hard to replace, was devastating. After a struggle that had lasted for several months, the Russian military finally withdrew its troops from Snake Island by 30 June 2022.25 Following the withdrawal of BSF from the northwestern Black Sea, the Ukrainians launched an extensive sea denial campaign throughout the entire Black Sea region. Over the next years, numerous Russian warships were reported having been attacked and sometimes fatally damaged by Ukrainian USVs. Examples include the alleged destruction of the corvettes Ivanovets (January/ February 2024) and Sergey Kotov (attacked in September 2023/supposedly sunk in March 2024) and the tank landing ship Tsezar Kunikov (February 2024).26As Habib and Md Al Af argue, the employment of such an asymmetric approach was critical for Ukraine’s ability to withstand the Russian invasion at the time of writing. Asymmetric capabilities both in the air, at sea and on land have made significant contributions to denying the Russians a quick, decisive victory and have pro- tracted the conflict.27 The BSF reacted in various ways, among others, by use of electromagnetic warfare and adding fire power to their naval assets.28 Still, even while Russian naval forces were seeking to adapt, losses were accumulating. After two years of war, naval expert Igor Delanoë assessed, ‘the BSF has not been able to overcome all the difficulties emanating from an asymmetric warfare at sea caused by the Ukrainians’ employment of naval drones and cruise missiles’.29 Already as early as August 2022, British intelligence assessed that Russian patrols were ‘generally limited to waters within sight of the Crimean coast’.30 As elaborated in the following sections, however, neither was navigating close to the shore nor staying in port going to be a viable naval strategy for the Russians. Ukrainian drone tactics involved attacks by swarms of fast USVs that were continuously improved and specialised.31 As in the case of UAS attacks, by employing comparatively cheap USVs Ukraine benefited from a great advan- tage in terms of cost-efficiency when targeting expensive assets such as warships.32 ‘Speed and numbers’, in the words of Røksund the ‘mantra’ of JÉ, 33 stood at the heart of Ukraine’s approach to naval warfare. It is therefore little wonder that Ukrainian scholars themselves have also drawn compar- isons with the Molodaya Shkola school of thought. Ukrainian military journal- ist and historian Oleksandr Vel’mozh͡ ko, for example, points out,In fact, I see here a new ‘edition’, so to speak, of the ‘young school’ - the theory of creating naval forces on the basis of small mine-torpedo, missile, or other currently high-tech weapons that would cost relatively cheap and could be used against large warships.34 Furthermore, various videos released by Ukrainian security agencies show attacks under conditions of low visibility, especially at night, when the drones could take full advantage of their small signatures.35 Immediately, nighttime torpedo boat attacks against bigger and much more heavily armed comba- tants – one of the JÉ’s leitmotif’s [FRA: ‘de nuit, l’avantage est pour les torpilleurs’ – at night, the advantage is for the torpedo boats] – come to mind.36 Essentially, the means and ways which Ukraine applied to erode the BSF’s strength resembled JE thinking at its core. While the asymmetric ways in which Ukraine has countered Russian conven- tional superiority at sea have proven to be exceptionally successful and can serve as a 21st century role model for a JÉ style of naval warfare, the second pillar of JÉ’s warfare concept – offensive commerce raiding – requires elaboration. Firstly, apart from very few instances reported by the Russian conflict party right at the outbreak of hostilities – Russia claimed that Ukrainian missiles had hit the mer- chantmen SGV Flot and Seraphim Sarovsky – Ukraine has abstained from carrying out attacks against Russian civilian shipping. As Raul Pedrozo argues, unless there were specific conditions (see the following section) which qualified both Russian merchant vessels as legitimate military targets, attacks on these vessels would have been inconsistent with the law of naval warfare.37 Whatever the conditions surrounding the alleged attacks against these two civilian ships during the first 24 hours of the war, as far as analysts can tell from publicly accessible information about the war at sea, they were isolated incidents. By no means did Ukraine pursue a naval strategy in which the deliberate targeting of enemy civilian vessels played any role. Secondly, on 5 August 2023, Russian sources reported that the Russian tanker Sig had been struck by Ukrainian forces close to Crimea – a claim that was later confirmed by the Ukrainian conflict party.38 According to various sources, how- ever, Sig was carrying fuel for military purposes to Syria.39 Thus, in this particular case, it was ‘integrated into the enemy’s war-supporting effort’ and ‘due to its behaviour fulfilled the requirements of a military objective’ which also includes ‘transporting war material or transporting or supplying troops’. Consequently, Sig lost its protected status as a merchant vessel and became a legitimate target.40 Thirdly, it is true that on 20 July 2023 the Ukrainian Ministry of Defence published a warning that from 21 July, all vessels headed to Russian ports or Russian-occupied Ukrainian ports may be considered as those carrying military cargo.41 Subsequently, this declaration was also reinforced by remarks made by various Ukrainian senior representatives in the context of the drone strike on tanker Sig who claimed that (every) Russian ship sailing in the Black Sea was now a legitimate target.42 However, the situation surrounding these declarations needs to be taken into consideration. In the context of the termination of the U.N. Grain Initiative and before the Ukrainians, the Russian Ministry of Defence had released a statement which declared that from ‘Moscow time on 20 July 2023, all vessels sailing in the waters of the Black Sea to Ukrainian ports will be regarded as potential carriers of military cargo’.43 Furthermore, at the time, Russia also targeted Ukrainian ships, ports and infrastructure connected with the export of grain.44 As Oleg Ustenko, an economic adviser to Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, points out, Ukraine’s ‘move was retaliation for Russia withdrawing from the U.N.-brokered Black Sea grain deal and unleashing a series of missile attacks on agricultural stores and ports’.45 The attack on the port of Novorossiysk had immediate effects on the movement of shipping and the calculation of war risk premiums (marine insurance).46 When both sides had given the opponent a taste of what a potential war on commercial shipping could look like, the smokescreen dispersed. Ukraine abstained from carrying out its threats. Thus, rather than interpreting Ukrainian activities within the framework of JÉ, theories on (non-nuclear) deterrence and strategic communication are much better suited to explain the events concerning civilian shipping in July and August 2023. Nothing remotely resembling a guerre de course-strategy had occurred. Why was this the case, especially in light of the enormous costs Ukraine could cause to Russian seaborne trade in comparison with the small investment associated with a few USVs? Legal constraints associated with the protection of mer- chant ships need to be primarily mentioned in this context.47  Limits to Jeune école – the legal and political dimension Although a comprehensive discussion of the law of naval warfare goes beyond the aims of this article, it is useful to recapitulate a few legal aspects concerning the war at sea. As a matter of principle, hostile merchant vessels do not qualify as legitimate military targets.48 The 1936 London Protocols awarded further protection to the status of merchant ships and clarified the rules of submarine warfare. They state, In particular, except in the case of persistent refusal to stop on being duly summoned, or of active resistance to visit or search, a warship, whether surface vessel or submarine, may not sink or render incapable of navigation a merchant vessel without having first placed passengers, crew and ship’s papers in a place of safety.49 To act in accordance with the law of armed conflict Ukraine would have had to seize Russian merchant vessels as prises and/or proclaim a maritime block- ade against the Russian Federation. In doing so, the Ukrainian Navy would have to enforce this blockade and, as a consequence, could/should have employed a belligerent’s right of visit and search.50 In order to interdict maritime traffic to the Russian coast and given the illegality of non- enforced blockades, both approaches – seizing individual enemy merchant ships and blockading the coastline – would require Ukrainian naval (and/or air) force (surface combatants) detecting civilian vessels, ascertaining their character and cargo and seizing vessels.51 Thus, as Ukraine lacked the surface units and the necessary sea control to seize ships, to enforce a blockade that requires ‘ensuring vessels trying to pass the blockade with sufficient probability’ and to exercise the belligerent’s right of visit, there were basically no options available to Ukraine to take actions against merchant shipping bound for Russian ports, if Ukraine was to act in accordance with the law of naval warfare.52 There are certain conditions when a merchant ship loses its protected status and becomes a legitimate military target, for example, when acting as naval auxiliaries, resisting capture or the belligerent’s right of visit and search or carrying out intelligence or communications functions.53 However, these conditions would not apply to a hypothetical scenario in which Ukraine would wage economic warfare against merchant shipping. Neither were merchant vessels bound for Russian ports sailing in convoys nor could merchantmen sailing towards Russian Black Sea ports generally be considered ‘integrated in Russia’s [and Ukraine’s] war effort’. All the conditions under which merchant ships may be eligible to attack during armed conflicts would not apply. While attacks on unarmed merchant vessels – especially for the weaker side – remains a tempting option in the 21st century as much as it was in the 19th century, the fear to commit blatant breaches of international law have had a discipling effect throughout the centuries. As outlined in section two of this article, the disapproval of the illegal ways of warfighting at sea that had been proposed by JÉ have been as old as this school of thought itself. In addition to the legal constraints that apply to commerce raiding, both sides’ decision not to follow the path leading to unrestricted economic warfare at sea should also be interpreted within the political context. For Ukraine acting in accordance with the law of armed conflict was significant as its support by the global community of liberal-minded states was shaped by these states’ normative understanding of the rules-based world order and international politics.54 Furthermore, both Ukraine and Russia were important exporters of various raw materials and food – particularly as far as the countries of the Global South were concerned. For example, in 2020, 15 countries in Africa imported over 50% of their wheat products from Ukraine or Russia. The impact of the war on the continent was profound as Africa suffered from a shortage of approximately 30 million tons of grains and serious inflation.55 Against this background, it seems clear that the targeting of merchant ships loaded with cargo desperately needed by the most vulner- able regions in the world would have only come at a tremendous political cost for the war parties. As Timothy Heck sums it up, Both the Ukrainians and the Russians wanted the benefits of international commerce and, diplomatically, to gain/earn/keep the goodwill of recipient nations by allowing regulated commercial traffic to escape the war zone.56 Again, similarities with the 19th century debates concerning JÉ are striking. Already in the 1880s influential opponents to JÉ, such as Admiral Bourgois, had criticised that tactics proposed by JÉ and illegal acts of naval warfare would rally neutral countries against France – the last thing an inferior French Navy in a military confrontation with Britain needed.57 While both sides largely refrained from directly targeting merchant ship- ping apart from a few exceptions, strikes against maritime critical infrastruc- ture and onshore facilities, which enabled both maritime commercial and naval operations at sea, evaded many of these constraints. Indeed, as each side intended to attrit the opponent’s ability to use the sea for one’ s own purposes, repeated attacks by various weapon systems against a wide range of maritime targets ashore became another principal characteristic of the Russo-Ukrainian War.  The degradation of Russia’s geostrategic position at the Black Sea Having elaborated on the applicability and the limits of the JÉ approach on the war at sea, the following section takes into consideration the second component of the systematic destruction of Russian naval capabilities in the Azov-Black Sea region: the targeting of Russian maritime infrastructure ashore and in port. In October 2022, a large-scale Ukrainian drone attack against Russian littoral positions attracted wide attention when several unmanned aerial vehicles and autonomous surface vehicles attacked the port of Sevastopol.58 Over the course of the next years, Ukraine repeatedly attacked Russian naval assets stationed on Crimea ashore and at the coast of the peninsula. Examples include strikes against Russian naval aviation at Saky airfield in August 2022, against various targets in the port of Sevastopol in March 2024 – apparently impacting the Ropucha-class tank landing ships Azov and Yamal – or against the Karakurt-class corvette Tsiklon in May 2024.59 Shortly after attacks against Russian infrastructure on Crimea had been reported, reports about Ukrainian strikes against Novorossiysk were pub- lished. In November 2022, a Ukrainian sea drone was reported having struck the Sheskharis oil terminal in Novorossiysk at night.60 As later reported by the newspaper Ukrainska Pravda, the following July, at a presidential meeting, Ukraine’s leadership had decided to launch strikes against Russian port infra- structure as a retaliatory measure for Russian missile and drone attacks on Ukrainian ports in the aftermath of the termination of the grain initiative.61 Subsequently, in early August 2023 movement of vessels was temporarily halted at the Port of Novorossiysk following a Ukrainian drone attack and the Russian tank landing ship Olenegorsky Gornyak suffering serious damage caused by a USV attack.62 Ukrainska Pravda reports on the moment when the Ukrainian drone operators came across various merchantmen while navigat- ing their USVs towards Novorossiysk. ‘Somewhere en route the operators saw a tanker. They asked if it could be perceived as a target. No tankers! If we hit a tanker in neutral waters, then we’ll be branded as some kind of terrorists. Your target is the port. (. . .) ’ a head of the mission said.63 Although this statement was reported by a conflict party and cannot independently be verified, it supports the argument made in the previous section about the limits of the JÉ approach in the case study of the Russo- Ukrainian War as far as the targeting of civilian shipping is concerned.64 Furthermore, and also exactly as in the case of the war on the open sea, the conflict parties had to consider third party opinions. As Ukrainska Pravda reports, following the Ukrainian strike against the port of Novorossiysk, ‘the Country’s Leadership received Warnings from partners at all levels’.65 In 2024, Ukrainian strikes against critical maritime infrastructure continued. In May, for example, Ukrainian attacks were reported on Novorossiysk’s seaport, an oil refinery in Tuapse and the Sevastopol Bay area.66 In early April 2024, Ukrainian Military Intelligence (HUR) published footage of a strike against an oil pipeline in Rostov Oblast that supposedly was used to transport oil products to the local oil depot for tankers in the Azov Sea. According to HUR, ‘the loading of tankers with oil products has been suspended indefinitely’.67 While the claim cannot be confirmed, the concept of striking the production and transport facilities before transportation rather than the merchant ships transporting the cargo highlights approaches to deal with the limits on economic warfare in the maritime dimension as detailed above. Although the BSF had to redeploy further to the eastern part of the Black Sea and Russia attempted to set up maintenance infrastructure further east, Ukraine continuously expanded the range of target locations and has thus been gradually degrading the Russian ability to make use of the sea. In the words of a retired U.S. admiral, ‘If you’re on a Russian naval ship, you’re not safe anywhere in the Black Sea’.68 As another element of Ukraine’s strike campaign, Ukraine has also targeted objectives whose destruction had a long-term impact on Russian naval capabilities and its war-making potential. For example, in July 2022 and in September 2023, Ukraine was reported having struck the naval staff/the headquarters of the BSF in Sevastopol – the latter attack causing devastating effects.69 As far as attacks against Russia’s industrial base and logistical infrastructure are concerned, examples include Ukrainian attacks against the Zaliv shipyard in Kerch, Crimea on 4 November 2023, which reportedly damaged the not yet commissioned Karakurt-class corvette Askold, and the strike against the Ropucha-class tank landing ship Novocherkassk that left the ship sunk at the bottom of the harbour. The strike has thus, extremely likely, rendered one of the main berths of the Feodosia port, which had been in use as an important logistical hub, unusable.70 A particularly devastating strike was carried out on 13 September 2023 when a Ukrainian missile strike hit dry docks of the Sevmorzavod shipyard, maintenance facilities of the BSF, in effect causing extensive damage to the Ropucha-class tank landing ship Minsk and the Kilo-II-mod-class conventional submarine Rostov-on-Don and consequently severing ‘Sevastopol’s ability to undertake maintenance and repairs of Black Sea Fleet vessels, at least until the dry docks at the Sevmorzavod facility (. . .) can be returned to regular use’, as Thomas Newdick points out.71 As the second year of the war was approaching its end, independent experts and Ukrainian military representatives were pointing at serious maintenance support issues confronting the BSF in the future as adequate repair infrastructure in this maritime theatre became a scarce resource.72 In combination, the accumulation of all these strikes over the long term had a serious attrition effect on Russia’s ability to utilise the sea for its purposes. This concerned primarily the military dimension but, as the war progressed and Ukrainian strikes against refineries and port infrastructure accumulated, also gradually the commercial dimension. British representa- tives assessed that 13% to 14% (December 2023) and subsequently 25% (February 2024) of Russia’s Black Sea combatant fleet had been destroyed.73 Moreover, on 26 March 2024, Ukraine’s navy spokesman Dmytro Pletenchuk released Ukraine’s assessment that up to that point in time, approximately a third of the BSF had been destroyed or disabled. 74 After more than two years of war, the strength and presence of the BSF had diminished consider- ably and British Defence Minister Grant Shapps considered the BSF ‘function- ally inactive’ – an assessment further substantiated by the UK Defence Intelligence update the following month75 The BSF has largely withdrawn its ships and submarines from Sevastopol further eastwards to Novorossiysk. Since the removal of the BSF commander in March 2024, the fleet has been the least active since the war began.76 How do these strikes against Russian targets in port and ashore fit within the JÉ school of thought? Firstly, while not a principal feature that is com- monly associated with JÉ naval strategy,77 the foundational literature written by the originators of JÉ does mention attacks on an enemy’s coastal facilities. This primarily includes bombardment of civilian coastal settlements for the purpose of terror but also includes military facilities when the opportunity arises. Aube, for example, writes: The masters of the sea will turn the power of attack and destruction, in the absence of adversaries evading their blows, against all the cities of the littoral, fortified or not, peaceful or warlike, burn them, ruin them or at least ransom them without mercy.78 Equally connecting strikes against military facilities at the coast with this naval strategic school, journalist and JÉ theoretician, Gabriel Charmes, argues,: The bombardment of Alexandria further showed that, if the heavy artillery of a battleship risked being quickly reduced to impotence by the resistance of the forts, the only weapon which could cause them serious damage was small artillery carried on fast ships.79 Secondly, if attention is paid to the connotated message the founding fathers of this naval school of thought tried to convey, a good argument can be made that Ukraine’s targeting of Russian infrastructure at the coastline fits well with a JÉ approach. Ukrainian strikes consist of numerous fast strikes and well- placed pin prick attacks that outmanoeuvre enemy defences and hit unex- pectedly. They are not built on sea control and air superiority because Ukraine did not enjoy dominance of these domains. Thus, the strikes were not ‘decisive’ in a Mahanian sense but rather the modern adoptions of concepts already presented by Admiral Aube during the 1880s. With the extreme mobility that steam gives to all warships, whatever the special weapon with which they are equipped, with the speed and security of informa- tion that the electric telegraph allows, with the concentration of force that is ensured by the railway, on the one hand side, no point on the coast is safe from attack.80 If one were to exchange the concept of steam power with modern forms of power generation, the telegraph with modern ISR and command and control systems and the railway with all forms of transportation available at the beginning of the 21st century, Aube’s article could very well describe a military scenario of the Russo-Ukrainian War. Repeated attacks against – and thus attrition of – the opponent’s naval geostrategic position could seriously degrade the opponent’s ability to operate, sustain and reinforce a fleet over a longer time period without having to destroy the opposing fleet in a symmetrical battle is essentially the quintessence of JÉ thinking. Granted, in Aube’s age, it would have been difficult to imagine how non- conventional means could assemble the necessary amount of firepower to cause the substantial damage to the opponent’s position as shown by the War in Ukraine. But since the development of weapon systems of ever greater ranges, a stakeholder’s position may be vulnerable to repeated attacks by an opponent even if the opponent has not been able to establish sea control and is using asymmetric styles of warfare. To sum up, technological advances have enabled the inferior side to pursue a naval strategy that contributed to driving down the opponent’s fleet’s capabilities without actually seeking a symmetrical engagement with his fleet. This, of course, is completely in line with JÉ thinking – a so-called ‘material school’ of naval strategic thought.81 Thus, in contrast to the deliberate targeting of merchantmen, in the case of attacks against Russian maritime infrastructure the Ukrainian approach can be interpreted as continuing and complementing JÉ thinking. The way ahead: Old school or young school? Ukraine’s asymmetric approach to naval warfare and the adoption of ideas associated with JÉ have secured Ukrainian successes in the maritime domain few experts could have predicted at the beginning of the hostilities.82 It is not exaggerated to claim that the significance of these events is historical. Generally speaking, many scholars and historical studies have not been particularly positive in their verdicts about JÉ as a viable strategic school of thought. As Arne Røksund elaborates, even when Théophile Aube was Minister of Marine (1886–1887), he could not overcome the French admiralty’s resistance to giving up entirely on battlefleets. The same holds true for the second generation of JÉ proponents during the latter 1890s.83 By the time De Lanessan was appointed Minister of Marine in 1899, ideas about great quan- tities of fast but mostly smaller vessels gave way for naval concepts based on comparatively fewer warships of high quality as ‘the French Navy should concentrate on what he regarded as core elements of a first-rank navy’.84 Subsequently, as Røksund, recapitulates, ‘The French Navy did not fight any war following the theory of the Jeune école.’85 Ian Speller comes to a similar conclusion as he underlines that  Even in France there was never a consensus in favour of their [Jeune École’s – author’s note] policies, and French naval policy remained divided (. . .) Ultimately, the Jeune École failed in their attempt to bring radical change to French naval policy.86 Similar to the fate of the French original, the Soviet Molodaya Shkola was replaced rather quickly by grand visions of ‘Stalin’s Big Ocean-going Fleet’ deemed more adequate for Soviet great power status.87 Of what relevance could JÉ ever be when – referring to a leading British naval historian – there has never been a historical example when the approach proposed by this strategic school of thought has ever worked in practice.88 Such criticism was very much in line with the writings of another prominent naval practitioner and theoretician: Admiral Gorshkov, Chief of the Soviet Navy. According to Gorshkov, the naval strategy pursued by the German naval leadership during WW2 had failed because it left the U-boats alone in their fight against the Allied navies without support by other subbranches of the navy. Without the danger of German naval and naval air forces attacking their surface vessels, Allied navies could focus on anti-submarine warfare and ‘the priority devel- opment of only one warfare branch, the subsurface forces, ultimately had to lead to a drastic limitation of the German fleet’s spectrum of tasks when fighting against the enemy’s fleets’, was his argument.89 As a consequence, Gorshkov strongly argues in favour of a balanced fleet which could potentially even defeat a numerically superior but unevenly developed opponent.90 In contrast, the war in the Black Sea has demonstrated that a JÉ approach can actually succeed in neutralising a superior, opposing naval force, at least in a narrow sea.91 Given recent events, the critical perception of JÉ should be carefully re-evaluated. Apart from the historical point of debate that the German military leadership had to fight WW2 with a different fleet than the ‘balanced fleet’ of the Z-Plan that it had originally envisioned but that had not been realised in time, there is also a conceptual issue worth debating from a strategic studies perspective. As various experts and, in fact, the German naval leadership,92 have repeatedly touched upon, the German Navy was doomed to lose the war at sea due to the greater strategic conditions (e.g., fleet sizes, war-making potential including shipbuilding capacity etc.) under which it had to fight WW2.93 If there was no winning condition in a conventional naval war, however, and if, consequently, the sense in carrying out the conflict at sea was not to ‘rule the waves’ but to cause the maximum amount of damage and bind a large Allied force in a way as resource-efficient as possible it has to be critically examined whether a JÉ may have actually been the smartest approach the German Navy could have chosen.94 As elaborated below, similar strategic calculations should be taken into consid- eration when debating the case of Ukraine and the War in the Black Sea. Commerce raiding, another feature of the JÉ approach, has equally been dismissed as futile. As far as targeting of individual merchant ships is con- cerned, the blue-water prophet himself, Alfred T. Mahan viewed this style of warfare as ‘the weakest form of naval warfare’95 and criticises ‘A strong man cannot be made to quit his work by sticking pins in him’.96 A hundred twenty years after Mahan, this assessment also may have lost some of its persuasive power. At the beginning of the 21st century, global sea-based commerce has become very sensitive to changes in the security environment and much more risk averse. Furthermore, the differentiation between flag states, ship owners, cargo owners, crews and charterers has greatly reduced ‘national interest’ within maritime commerce. As a consequence, the outbreak of hostilities in the northwestern Black Sea at the beginning of the Black Sea has – not discounting other factors, such as the closing of ports and Ukrainian authorities prohibiting merchant ships from leaving ports – led to a drastic collapse of merchant shipping to and from Ukraine.97 Similarly, the drastic effects of the 2023 attack against the port of Novorossiysk and the Sig on the maritime commercial sector have already been mentioned. Against this background, it seems extremely likely that if Ukraine struck or sank even a small number of merchantmen destined to call in ports such as Novorossiysk, Taganrog, Taman or Tuapse this would have devastating effects for Russian sea-based transportation in the entire Azovo-Black Sea basin. However, as already noted, as far as commerce warfare is concerned, the limiting factor was less of operational and more or of legal and political nature. While some of the aspects of warfighting associated with JÉ were already considered immoral and contrary to international law during the 19th century, the weight of politico-legal circumstances and the necessity to fight a ‘just war’ are even more significant during the 21st century. This is particu- larly true for Ukraine which depends on the support of the Global West – a value-driven community. In summary, an approach to warfare closely associated with JÉ has awarded Ukraine great successes for more than two years of war in the Black Sea. But as Ukraine has to fight the war at sea solely based on a sea denial approach, the country is also faced with severe limitations. Any opera- tion that requires sea control as a precondition is effectively beyond Ukrainian means if not in immediate proximity of the Ukrainian coastline such as the reported landings of Ukrainian soldiers on drilling platforms.98 Keeping all these more abstract considerations in mind, the debates on (applied) naval strategy that are currently ongoing in Ukraine become much more comprehensible. Following – from Kyiv’s point of view – a successful campaign at sea, in which the reinforced BSF was pushed out of the western Black Sea and suffered considerable losses, a debate is taking place about the future devel- opment of Ukrainian Navy and Ukraine’s approach to warfighting in the maritime dimension. On the one hand, there are the proponents of building a symmetrical naval force. The ‘Doctrine of the Naval Forces of Ukraine’ that was released in 2021 was an ambitious strategic document. As far as the ‘expansion of the fleet composition through the construction and modernisa- tion of the existing fleet composition’ was concerned, the doctrine detailed ‘new generation missile boats, landing ships of various classes, patrol ships and boats for the protection of the territorial waters and the EEZ, uncrewed underwater vehicles, new types of supply vessels of various types’ and ‘the construction of new mine warfare vessels and small submarines’.99 Most breathtaking, the ‘Doctrine of the Naval Forces of Ukraine’ defined capabil- ities for ‘sea control on the open ocean’ as the number one priority for the development of the Ukrainian Navy in the period following 2030.100 It is also in this context that Ukraine’s interest in procuring frigates through the UK capability development initiative and developing the design of the Volodymyr Velykyi-class corvettes have to be interpreted.101 Taking into consideration the point from where the Ukrainian Navy had to restart in 2014, these acquisition goals were bold to say the least. More than two years into the war, visions about the future of the Ukrainian Navy have lost nothing of their grandness. According to this school of thought, among other things, the air defence capability of the Ukrainian Navy is to be strengthened, long-range strike capabilities are to be acquired, surface comba- tants of different classes are to be put into service and amphibious forces are to be set up in the form of additional naval infantry brigades with landing vehicles.102 This expansion of capabilities is intended to gradually create the conditions for achieving sea control. Having established sea control, Ukraine would be in a position to conduct amphibious operations on its own and even think about establishing a naval blockade of the Russian Black Sea coast. The construction of Milgem project corvettes for the Ukrainian Navy at the RMK Marine Shipyard in Istanbul103 and capabilities gained through the British-Norwegian Maritime Capability Coalition104 are important steps in this direction. On the other hand, another faction opposes the above-mentioned views. Proponents of this second philosophy of warfare emphasise that Ukraine has been able to wage the war at sea so successfully because it has used an asymmetrical approach. According to their view, it is important to maintain this approach and Ukraine should under no circumstances aim to fight a symmetrical naval war with the Russian fleet. The Ukrainian fleet design should therefore be based on a so-called mosquito fleet – a fleet consisting of small naval assets applying asymmetrical doctrine.105 This argument is not new. Already Ukraine’s 2018 ‘Strategy of the Naval Forces of the Armed Forces of Ukraine 2035’ elaborates, Recovery of the surface forces during the first two stages of the Strategy will be executed due to the boats of the ‘mosquito fleet’. This solution is the most realistic in terms of cost-effectiveness ratio. Due to its speed, manoeuvrability and armament, such boats are capable of performing practically the whole spectrum of tasks that are inherent to classical surface ships, but they have smaller sea worthiness and operational range from the coast.106 Although Ukrainian strategic documents repeatedly referred to the term ‘mosquito fleet’, the official Ukrainian naval discourse did not explicitly mention JÉ terminol- ogy. This detail stands in contrast to the above-mentioned remarks about the Molodaya Shkola by Ukrainian civilian commentators. It is also, on first sight, surprising given the actual approach to warfare in the Black Sea region that Ukraine – although not primarily the Ukrainian Navy as mentioned further below – has chosen which has paralleled what the JÉ espoused. However, as Admiral (ret.) Ihor Kabanenko, former deputy minister of defence of Ukraine, points out, ‘this term [Molodaya Shkola – author’s note] is not widely used in Ukraine – apparently, because our experts mostly look to the UK and the US and therefore appeal to the old school of sea power and sea mastery [Soviet/Russian/Ukrainian terminological equivalent of the English term “command of the sea”107 – author’s note], missing out on important experience of waging war in the continental sea’.108 The relative silence on JÉ within the official Ukrainian naval discourse is even less astonishing if the development since 2020, approximately, is taken into consideration. As Kabanenko argues, at some point around the turn of the third decade of the 21st century, Ukrainian naval strategy changed course and while abandoning ideas associated with a mosquito fleet, the ‘later document [the 2021 Doctrine – author’s note] instead calls for ambitious symmetric decisions and actions’ in turn stretching budgetary resources and making very costly, long-term investments.109 What had happened? In June 2020, Oleksiy Neizhpapa was appointed Commander of the Ukrainian Navy.110 Neizhpapa – an ‘Old School’ commander – favoured conventional naval forces.111 Talking at the launch of the UK/Norway/Ukraine Maritime Capability Coalition at Admiralty House in London in December 2023, Neizhpapa clung to his visions of a long-term plan for a capable conventional fleet until 2035 and clearly expressed that a powerful and capable navy is not only a tool to deter Russian aggression from the sea, but also a guarantee of the prosperity of our country and security in the region.112 It is thus not a surprise that the 2021 strategic document of the Ukrainian Navy took a sharp turn. Furthermore, as various sources point out, Ukraine’s most successful maritime assets, naval drones, have been predominantly although not exclusively operated by the civilian (SBU) and military (HUR) intelligence services rather than the navy.113 Many Ukrainians who adhere to the second faction view these grand fleet ambitions critically. As Captain (ret.) Andrii Ryzhenko argues, the cost of building up a conventional fleet as envisioned by the Ukrainian naval leadership would be extremely expensive. Such resources could be spent much wiser, especially, if the fact that Ukraine’s current naval strategy that enables effective sea denial operations is taken into consideration.114 Essentially, the ideas supported by Kabanenko, Ryzhenko and other proponents of this school of thought can be attributed to the long-standing tradition of JÉ thinking. In contrast, whereas throughout this article this author has argued that means and ways which Ukrainian security organs applied to erode its Russian opponent closely resembled a JÉ style of naval warfare, this evaluation is descriptive not prescriptive. Unlike civilian experts, such as Vel’mozh͡ ko, who have equally compared Ukraine’s approach to the War in the Black Sea with Young School thinking, there is no evidence supporting that Ukraine’s post-2020 naval leadership was deliber- ately pursuing a JÉ-informed strategy. On the contrary, available evidence points in the direction that for the decision-makers at the time of the Russian full-scale invasion of Ukraine the JÈ was not a source of direct inspiration. In fact, Ukraine’s naval leaders were informed by Old School thinking and capabilities for conventional, symmetric naval warfare were favoured. Revival of Jeune École? The discussion of attacks on merchant shipping has shown that if Ukraine really wanted to interfere with Russian merchant shipping or potentially even enforce a blockade itself, it would have to acquire a fleet consisting of at least some surface combatants. It is highly questionable that under the conditions of (this) war such an aim can be accomplished. Already before the full-scale invasion in February 2022, various experts criticised Ukraine’s apparent shift in naval strategy and the country’s ambitious plans to create a balanced fleet capable of, among others, conducting offensive maritime operations which they deemed unrealistic and a waste of resources arguing instead for the establishment of an effective mosquito fleet.115 Given that Ukraine is fighting an existential struggle in a mostly land- dominated theatre of war, Ukraine should carefully assess how many resources it would want to invest in capabilities in the maritime domain. Ultimately, Russia retains significant long-range strike capabilities as demon- strated by the strike campaign which the Russian military has been waging against Ukraine’s energy infrastructure since autumn 2022.116 So far, one of the great advantages Ukraine’s Navy has enjoyed over the course of this war has been that its mosquito fleet was difficult to track and neutralise by the enemy. Introducing large, tangible objects – naval vessels – into the arsenal of the Ukrainian military would deprive Ukraine of this advantage and make the life for the Russian targeting process a lot easier. Furthermore, given Ukraine’s geographic and geopolitical situation it has to be critically questioned whether Anglo-Saxon ‘Old School’ blue-water theories are the best fit for the Ukrainian Navy. As Gorshkov argues, it is ‘wrong to attempt to build a fleet according to the model and example of the strongest naval power’ as ‘every country has its specific needs for naval forces.’117 Thus, Ryzhenko is correct to emphasise time and again the necessity to pursue an asymmetric strategy at least as far as the enclosed theatre of the Azov-Black Sea-region is concerned. In his words,  Ultimately, small, fast, maneuverable and well-armed boats as well as unmanned aerial and surface vehicles comprising a well-equipped ‘mosquito fleet’ could quickly and efficiently strengthen the Ukrainian Navy and improve the chances to execute successful operations within confined and contested areas where, for now, Russia enjoys dominance in the air and sea. 118 Considering the fate of the JÉ and the Soviet Molodaya Shkola, the – one could almost say libidinal – desire of naval leaders to aim beyond the stage of JÉ weapons and doctrine and acquire a conventional fleet (in the old days a battlefleet) has been prevalent. More than 130 years after Aube, Grivel and the other founding fathers of JÉ, the temptation remains strong. Ironically, even in pursuing an actual war-winning JÉ-based strategy Ukrainian decision- makers are still tempted to revert to warfare capabilities associated with classical naval warfare. The Ukrainian naval leadership should consider care- fully before continuing to steer down this waterway. NOTES 1 Ian Speller, Understanding Naval Warfare, 2nd ed. (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2019), 43ff. 2 See, for example, these authors’ most prominent works: Alfred Thayer Mahan, The Influence of Sea Power upon History 1660–1783 (Boston: Little, Brown, and Company, 1890); Philip Howard Colomb, Naval Warfare: Its Ruling Principles and Practice Historically Treated (London: W. H. Allen & Co., Ltd., 1891); Julian Corbett, Some Principles of Maritime Strategy (London: Longmans, Green and Co., 1911). Corbett has indeed also addressed several elements of naval warfare which are essential to the JÉ school of thought. For example, Corbett argues ‘The vital, most difficult, and most absorbing problem has become not how to increase the power of a battle-fleet for attack, which is a comparatively simple matter, but how to defend it. As the offensive power of the flotilla developed, the problem pressed with an almost bewildering intensity. With every increase in the speed and sea-keeping power of torpedo craft, the problem of the screen grew more exacting’ (Corbett, Some Principles of Maritime Strategy, 122). Due to limitations in aim and scope, this article limits itself to literature and theoreticians associated with the JÉ. Interpreting the War in the Black Sea from a Corbettian perspective may be an area for further research. 3 James R. Holmes and Toshi Yoshihara, Chinese Naval Strategy in the 21st Century: The Turn to Mahan (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2008); David Scott, ‘India’s Drive For A “Blue Water” Navy’, Journal of Military and Strategic Studies, Winter 2007–08, 10/2 (2008); and Alessio Patalano, Post-War Japan As a Sea Power: Imperial Legacy, Wartime Experience and the Making of a Navy (London: Bloomsburry, 2016). 4 Seth Cropsey, ‘Naval Considerations in the Russo-Ukrainian War’, Naval War College Review, 75/4 (2022), Article 4; and Brent Sadler, ‘Applying Lessons of the Naval War in Ukraine for a Potential War with China’, The Heritage Foundation, 5 January 2023, https://www.heritage.org/asia/report/applying-lessons-the-naval-war-ukraine-potential-war-china. 5 Borys Kormych and Tetyana Malyarenko, ‘From Gray Zone to Conventional Warfare: the Russia-Ukraine Conflict in the Black Sea’, Small Wars & Insurgencies, 34/7 (2023), 1235–70; Silviu Nate et. alii, ‘Impact of the Russo-Ukrainian War on Black Sea Trade: Geoeconomic Challenges’, Economics & Sociology, 17/1 (2024), 256–79; and Nick Childs, ‘The Black Sea in the Shadow of War’, Survival, 65/3 (2023), 25–36. 6 Md. Tanvir Habib and Shah Md Shamrir Al Af, ‘Maritime asymmetric warfare strategy for smaller states: lessons from Ukraine’, Small Wars & Insurgencies 36/1 (2025), 29–58. 7 Michael Shurkin, ‘Plus Ça Change: A French Approach to Naval Warfare in the 21st Century’, War on the Rocks, 13 Oct. 2023, https://warontherocks.com/2023/10/plus-ca-change-a-french-approach-to-naval-warfare-in-the-21st-century/. 8 Andrew F. Krepinevich and Barry Watts, ‘Meeting the Anti-Access and Area-Denial Challenge’, Center for Strategic and Budgetary Assessments, 20 May 2003, https://csbaonline.org/research/publications/a2ad-anti-access-area-denial; Stephan Frühling and Guillaume Lasconjarias, ‘NATO, A2/AD and the Kaliningrad Challenge’, Survival, 58/2 (2016), 95–116; and Douglas Barrie, ‘Anti-Access/Area Denial: Bursting the “no-go” bubble?’, IISS Military Balance Blog, 29 Mar. 2019, https://www.iiss.org/blogs/military-balance/2019/04/anti-access-area-denial-russia-and-crimea. 9 Bryan Ranft and Geoffrey Till, The Sea in Soviet Strategy, 2nd ed. (Basingstoke: MacMillan Press, 1989), 94,95; Mikhail Monakov and Jürgen Rohwer, Stalin’s Ocean-Going Fleet: Soviet Naval Strategy and Shipbuilding Programs, 1935–53 (Abingdon: Frank Cass, 2001), 20ff. and Geoffrey Till, Seapower: A Guide for the Twenty-First Century, 4th ed. (London and New York, NY: Routledge 2018), 94,95. 10 The Land-Based Variant of the SS-N-3 Shaddock. 11 R-360 Neptune Anti-Ship Missiles are Believed to have Critically Damaged the Russian Cruiser Moskva in April 2022. Ellen Uchimiya and Eleanor Watson, The Neptune: The Missiles that Struck Russia’s flagship, the Moskva, CBS News, 16 Apr. 2022, https://www.cbsnews.com/news/moskva-ship-sinking-russian-flagship-neptune-missiles/. 12 Till, Seapower, 93; Beatrice Heuser, The Evolution of Strategy: Thinking War from Antiquity to the Present (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2010), 225,226. 13 Arne Røksund, The Jeune École: The Strategy of the Weak (Brill, 2007), iX; Martin Motte, Une Éducation Géostratégique. La Pensée Navale Française de la Jeune École à 1914 (Paris:: Economica, 2004), 99. 14 Richild Grivel, De la guerre maritime avant et depuis les nouvelles Inventions (Paris: Arthus Bertrand and J. Dumaine 1869), 7. 15 Ibid., 259. 16 Till, Seapower, 91. 17 Røksund, The Jeune École, 6. 18 Hyacinthe Laurent Théophile Aube, ‘La guerre maritime et les ports militaires de la France’, 320, Revue des Deux Mondes, March 1882, 314–46. 19 Till, Seapower, 91. 20 Røksund, The Jeune École, xii. 21 Ibid., 29–31, 121. 22 Defense Express, ‘First Target of Ukraine’s Neptune Missile’, 12 Jan. 2024, https://en.defence-ua.com/events/first_target_of_ukraines_neptune_missile_how_the_moskva_flagship_killer_scored_its_first_hit_and_prevented_amphibious_assault-9162.html. 23 Hannah Ritchie, ‘Ukrainian Drone Destroys Russian Patrol Ships off Snake Island, says Defense Ministry’, CNN, 2 May 2022, https://edition.cnn.com/europe/live-news/russia-ukraine-war-news-05-02-22#h_a73ac98f2400af01f729e23a7e01ae88; and AFP, ‘Ukraine Says Sank Russian Landing Craft at Snake Island’, The Moscow Times, 11 May 2022, https://www.themoscowtimes.com/2022/05/07/ukraine-says-sank-russian-landing-craft-at-snake-island-a77614. 24 Tass, ‘Kiev loses 30 drones in attempt to seize Snake Island – Russian Defense Ministry’, 10 May 2022, https://tass.com/defense/1449051?utm_source=google.com=organic=google.com=google. com/amp/amp/amp. 25 Deutsche Welle, ‘Russia Pulls Back Forces from Snake Island – as it Happened’, 30 June 2022, <https://www.dw.com/en/ukraine-russia-pulls-back-forces-from-snake-island-as-it-happened/a−62,309,716>. 26 Robert Greenall, ‘Ukraine “hits Russian Missile boat Ivanovets in Black Sea”, BBC, 1 Feb. 2024, https://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-68165523; Tom Balmforth and Yuliia Dysa, ‘Ukraine attacks Russian Warships in Black Sea, Destroys Air defences in Crimea, Kyiv says’, Reuters, 14 Sept. 2023, https://www.reuters.com/world/europe/ukraine-destroys-russian-air-defence-system-near-crimeas-yevpatoriya-source-2023-09-14/; and Sergeĭ Koval’, ‘U beregov kryma potoplen rossiĭskiĭ raketnyĭ kater. Chto o nem izvestno?’, Krym Realii, 01 Feb. 2024, https://ru.krymr.com/a/krym-potoplen-ros-raketnyy-kater/32801464.html. 27 Habib and Md Al Af, ‘Maritime asymmetric warfare strategy for smaller states’, p. 34. 28 Andrew E. Kramer, ‘In a Tough Year on Land, Drones Give Ukraine Some Success at Sea’, 20 Dec. 2023, New York Times, https://www.nytimes.com/2023/12/20/world/europe/ukraine-drones-sea.html. 29 Igor Delanoë, ‘Russia’s Black Sea Fleet in the “Special Military Operation” in Ukraine’, 7 Feb. 2024, https://www.fpri.org/article/2024/02/russias-black-sea-fleet-in-the-special-military-operation-in-ukraine/. 30 UK Ministry of Defence, ‘Latest Defence Intelligence update on the situation in Ukraine − 16 Aug. 2022’, X, 16 Aug. 2022, https://x.com/DefenceHQ/status/1559411321581572098. 31 Kramer, ‘In a Tough Year on Land’; Roman Romaniuk, Sam Harvey and Olya Loza, ‘Sea drones, Elon Musk, and high-precision missiles: How Ukraine dominates in the Black Sea’, Ukrainska Pravda, 1 Jan. 2024, https://www.pravda.com.ua/eng/articles/2024/01/1/7435326/. 32 Joshua Cheetham, ‘Sea drones: What are they and how much do they cost?’ BBC, 13 Sept. 2023, https://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe−66,373,052. 33 Røksund, The Jeune École, 139. 34 Oleksandr Vel’moz͡hko, ‘Rosiĭs’kyĭ flot znovu vidstupai͡e u bazi (VIDEO)’, Pivdennyĭ Kur’i͡er, 10 Dec. 2022,https://uc.od.ua/news/navy/1248235. 35 Greenall, ‘Ukraine ‘hits Russian missile boat Ivanovets in Black Sea’; and Milana Golovan, ‘MAGURA V5 drones attack Tsezar Kunikov ship: Russian occupiers release first-person video footage’, LIGABusinessInform, 6 Mar. 2024, https://news.liga.net/en/politics/video/kak-drony-magura-v5-atakovali-tsezarya-kunikova-okkupanty-pokazali-video-ot-pervogo-litsa. 36 Un ancien officier de marine, ‘Torpilleurs et Torpilles’, 47, La Nouvelle revue, 7/32 (January-February 1885), 42–71. 37 Raul Pedrozo, ‘Maritime Exclusion Zones in Armed Conflicts’, International Law Studies 99/526 (2022), https://digital-commons.usnwc.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=3018&context=ils, 531. 38 Interfaks, ‘Tanker Povrezhden Na Podkhode K Kerchenskomu Prolivu, Predpolozhitel’No,Morskim Dronom’, 5 Aug. 2023, https://www.interfax.ru/russia/914933; and Romaniuk, Harvey and Loza, ‘Sea drones, Elon Musk, and high-precision missiles’. 39 Sofiia Syngaivska, ‘Russia Uses Civilian Vessels for Military Purposes, Including Recently Attacked Sig Merchant Tanker’, 10 Aug. 2023, https://en.defence-ua.com/news/russia_uses_civilian_vessels_for_military_purposes_including_recently_attacked_sig_merchant_tanker-7590.html; and Daria Shulzhenko, ‘Ukraine’s security chief: Attacks on Russian ships, Crimean bridge ‘logical and legal’, The Kyiv Independent, 5 Aug. 2023, https://kyivindependent.com/sbu-head-says-attacks-on-russian-ships-crimean-bridge-are-logical-and-legal/. 40 Udo Fink and Ines Gillich, Humanitäres Völkerrecht (Baden-Baden: Nomos, 2023), 212; Interview with a legal advisor for Law of Naval Operations on 11 June 2024. 41 Ministerstvo oborony Ukraïny, ‘Zai͡ava Ministerstva oborony Ukraïny’, Facebook, 20 July 2023, https://www.facebook.com/MinistryofDefence.UA/posts/pfbid02fGmqenfANV5TABt16PgMpJRT7k5sbkeUhkEAsbkeUhkEAVZuvxxS2dgPkH2qAR7yl. 42 Sluz͡hba bezpeky Ukraïny, ‘golova SBU Vasil’ Mali͡uk prokomentuvav neshchodavni ataky nadvodnymy dronamy na korabli rf,‘ 5 Aug 2023, https://t.me/SBUkr/9185; Gabriel Gavin, ‘Ukraine declares war on Russia’s Black Sea shipping’, Politico, 8 Aug. 2023, https://www.politico.eu/article/ukraine-declares-war-on-russia-black-sea-shipping/. 43 Lloyd’s List, ‘Russia warns that Ships Heading to Ukraine are now a Military Target’, 20 July 2023, https://www.lloydslist.com/LL1145965/Russia-warns-that-ships-heading-to-Ukraine-are-now-a-military-target. 44 Shaun Walker, ‘Odesa suffers “Hellish Night” as Russia Attacks Ukraine Grain Facilities’, The Guardian, 19 July 2023, https://www.theguardian.com/world/2023/jul/19/odesa-suffers-hellish-night-as-russia-attacks-ukraines-grain-facilities; UK Foreign, Commonwealth & Development Office and James Cleverly, ‘New intelligence shows Russia’s targeting of a cargo ship’, 11 Sept. 2023, https://www.gov.uk/government/news/new-intelligence-shows-russias-targeting-of-a-cargo-ship. 45 Gavin, ‘Ukraine declares war on Russia’s Black Sea shipping’. 46 Michelle Wiese Bockmann, ‘Western Tankers Abandon Black Sea crude markets after Ukraine drone attacks’, Lloyd’s List, 07 Aug. 2023, https://www.lloydslist.com/LL1146178/Western-tankers-abandon-Black-Sea-crude-markets-after-Ukraine-drone-attacks. 47 Interview with an authoritative Ukrainian source in May 2024. 48 Louise Doswald-Beck (ed.), San Remo Manual on International Law Applicable to Armed Conflicts at Sea (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995) [SRM], paragraphs [59]-[61]; Andreas von Arnauld, Völkerrecht (Heidelberg: C.F. Müller, 2019), 577. 49 International Committee of the Red Cross, ‘Procès-verbal relating to the Rules of Submarine Warfare set forth in Part IV of the Treaty of London of 22 April 1930. London, 6 November 1936’, https://ihl-databases.icrc.org/assets/treaties/330-IHL-45-EN.pdf. 50 SRM paragraphs [93]-[104]; Robert Kolb and Richard Hyde, Introduction to the International Law of Armed Conflicts (Oxford and Portland, OR: Hart Publishing, 2008), 252. 51 Kolb and Hyde, Introduction to the International Law of Armed Conflicts, 252; James Kraska and Raul Pedrozo, International Maritime Security Law (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 888; Arnauld, Völkerrecht, 578. 52 Arnauld, Völkerrecht, 578. Offensive mine warfare is not considered in this article (Conversation with Dr Marc De Vore, University of St. Andrews, at the Finnish National Defence University in Helsinki on 13 February 2025). 53 SRM, paragraph [60]. For a discussion, see, Kraska and Pedrozo, International Maritime Security Law, 868. 54 UK Foreign, Commonwealth and Development Office, ‘G7 Foreign Ministers’ Meeting communiqué (Capri, 19 April, 2024) – steadfast support to Ukraine’, 19 Apr. 2024, https://www.gov.uk/government/publications/g7-foreign-ministers-meeting-communiques-april-2024/g7-foreign-ministers-meeting-communique-capri-19-april-2024-steadfast-support-to-ukraine. 55 Bitsat Yohannes-Kassahun, ‘One Year Later: The impact of the Russian conflict with Ukraine on Africa’, United Nations Africa Renewal, 13 Feb. 2023, https://www.un.org/africarenewal/magazine/february-2023/one-year-later-impact-russian-conflict-ukraine-africa. 56 Timothy Heck, speech given at the Kiel International Seapower Symposium 2024 on 28 June 2024. 57 Røksund, The Jeune École, 27. 58 Tim Lister, ‘A Russian naval base was targeted by drones. Now Ukrainian grain exports are at risk’, CNN, 31 Oct. 2022, https://edition.cnn.com/2022/10/31/europe/sevastopol-drone-russia-ukraine-grain-intl-cmd/index.html. 59 Shephard News, ‘UK says Saky explosions leave Russian Navy Black Sea aviation fleet ‘significantly degraded’, 12 Aug. 2022, https://www.shephardmedia.com/news/defence-notes/uk-says-explosions-leave-russian-navy-black-sea-aircraft-significantly-degraded/; Cameron Manley, ‘Ukraine says it has taken out another 2 warships in Russia’s Black Sea fleet’, Business Insider, 24 Mar. 2024, https://www.businessinsider.com/ukraine-taken-out-another-2-ships-russias-black-sea-fleet-2024–3; and Nate Ostiller and The Kyiv Independent news desk, ‘General Staff confirms Russian missile ship Tsiklon struck in occupied Crimea’, The Kyiv Independent, 21 May 2024, https://kyivindependent.com/general-staff-confirms-russian-missile-ship-zyklon-struck-off-occupied-crimea. 60 HI Sutton, ‘Ukraine’s Maritime Drone Strikes Again: Reports Indicate Attack On Novorossiysk’, Naval News, 18 Nov. 2022, https://www.navalnews.com/naval-news/2022/11/ukraine-maritime-drone-strikes-again-reports-indicate-attack-on-novorossiysk/. 61 Romaniuk, Harvey and Loza, ‘Sea drones, Elon Musk, and high-precision missiles’. 62 Lloyd’s List, ‘Ukraine attacks Russian port of Novorossiysk’, 4 Aug. 2023, https://lloydslist.com/LL1146152/Ukraine-attacks-Russian-port-of-Novorossiysk; UK Ministry of Defence, ‘Latest Defence Intelligence update on the situation in Ukraine − 05 August 2023’, X, 5 Aug. 2023, https://x.com/DefenceHQ/status/1687697529918373889?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw%7Ctwcamp%5Etweetembed%7Ctwterm%5E1687697529918373889%7Ctwgr%5E751b5a68b67ea91d2ca704e56fc3a0c7c88c3053%7Ctwcon%5Es1_&ref_url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.forces.net%2Frussia%2Frussian-war-ship-damaged-significant-blow-russias-black-sea-fleet-mod-says. 63 Romaniuk, Harvey and Loza, ‘Sea drones, Elon Musk, and high-precision missiles’. 64 It can certainly be argued that states do not always comply with international humanitarian law. The Second World War provides numerous examples including in the field of commerce raiding. However, the Manichaean distinction between Russia, the aggressor violating public international law, and Ukraine, which is legitimately defending itself, is essential to Kyiv’s political strategy. Against this background, consideration of international law is fundamental for Ukraine’s naval warfare and this study. 65 Romaniuk, Harvey and Loza, ‘Sea drones, Elon Musk, and High-Precision Missiles’. 66 Alona Sonko, ‘Aerial Shots Detail Drone Damage at Novorossiysk Port’, The New Voice of Ukraine, 19 May 2024, https://english.nv.ua/nation/satellite-images-show-aftermath-of-may-17-attack-on-novorossiysk-seaport−50,419,745html. 67 Martin Fornusek, ‘Military intelligence: Oil Pipeline Blown up in Russia’s Rostov Oblast’, The Kyiv Independent, 06 Apr. 2024, https://kyivindependent.com/military-intelligence-oil-pipeline-in-russias-rostov-oblast-on-fire/. 68 Jack Detsch, ‘Russia’s Home Port in Occupied Crimea Is Under Fire’, Foreign Policy, 13 Sept. 2023, https://foreignpolicy.com/2023/09/13/crimea-ukraine-russia-war-attack-black-sea-fleet/. 69 Interfaks, ‘Chislo postradavshikh pri atake na stab Chernomorskogo flota vyroslo do shesti’, 31 July 2022, https://www.interfax.ru/russia/854608; Maria Kostenko, Tim Lister and Sophie Tanno, ‘Ukraine says strike on Russia’s Black Sea Fleet HQ left Dozens Dead and Wounded ‘Including Senior Leadership’, CNN, 23 September 2023, https://edition.cnn.com/2023/09/23/europe/special-ops-black-sea-strike-dozens-dead-intl-hnk/index.html. 70 The Maritime Executive, ‘Ukraine Strikes Another Naval Shipyard in Russian-Occupied Crimea’, 05 Nov. 2024, https://maritime-executive.com/article/ukraine-strikes-another-naval-shipyard-in-russian-occupied-crimea; Defense Express, ‘Destruction of Russian Novocherkassk Ship has Blocked One of Logistic Channels to Crimea (Satellite Photo)’, 12 Apr. 2024, https://en.defence-ua.com/analysis/destruction_of_russian_novocherkassk_ship_has_blocked_one_of_logistic_channels_to_crimea_satellite_photo−10,152html. 71 UK Ministry of Defence, ‘Update on Ukraine’, X, 15 Sept. 2023, https://x.com/DefenceHQ/status/1702561936179630440?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw%7Ctwcamp%5Etweetembed%7Ctwterm%5E1702561936179630440%7Ctwgr%5E64b3d174bc910eae91016ef92e9b0b07e88b9194%7Ctwcon%5Es1_&ref_url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.twz.com%2Frussian-submarine-shows-massive-damage-after-ukrainian-strike; Thomas Newdick, ‘Russian Submarine Shows Massive Damage After Ukrainian Strike’, The Warzone, 18 Sept. 2024, https://www.twz.com/russian-submarine-shows-massive-damage-after-ukrainian-strike. 72 Craig Hooper, ‘Why Ukraine’s Strike On Sevastopol Naval Infrastructure Is A Big Deal’, Forbes, 14 Sept. 2024, https://www.forbes.com/sites/craighooper/2023/09/13/why-ukraines-strike-on-sebastopol-naval-infrastructure-is-a-big-deal/; Mike Eckel, ‘Russia’s Navy Has A Dry Dock Problem. Again’, Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, 16 Sept. 2023, https://www.rferl.org/a/russia-navy-dry-dock-problem-ukraine-/32595547.html. 73 UK Foreign, Commonwealth & Development Office and Nicholas Aucott, ‘Russia is Diminished in The eyes of The International Community through its Own Actions: UK Statement to the OSCE’, 06 Dec. 2023, https://www.gov.uk/government/speeches/russia-is-diminished-in-the-eyes-of-the-international-community-through-its-own-actions-uk-statement-to-the-osce; Sinéad Baker, ‘Putin doesn’t really want a war with NATO because “Russia will lose and lose quickly”, UK military chief says’, Business Insider, 28 Feb. 2024, https://www.businessinsider.com/putin-doesnt-want-nato-war-russia-would-lose-quickly-uk-2024–2?r=US&IR=T. 74 AP News, ‘Ukrainian navy says a Third of Russian warships in the Black Sea have been Destroyed or Disabled’, 26 Mar. 2024, https://apnews. 75 Mia Jankowicz, ‘Russia’s Black Sea Fleet is “Functionally Inactive” After being Pummeled Hard by Ukraine, UK says’, Business Insider, 25 Mar. 2024, https://www.businessinsider.com/russia-black-sea-fleet-functionally-inactive-after-ukraine-strikes-uk-2024–3.: 76 UK Ministry of Defence, ‘Latest Defence Intelligence update on the situation in Ukraine − 18 April 2024’, X, 18 Apr. 2024, https://x.com/DefenceHQ/status/1780878487068242335/photo/3. 77 Speller takes only brief note of Attacks Against Enemy Ports whereas Geoffrey Till doesn’t mention them at all. The Commerce Raiding Component of Jeune ÉCole has been awarded much greater attention. Speller, Understanding Naval Warfare, 57–60; Till, Seapower, 91–93. 78 Aube, ‘La guerre maritime’, 331. 79 Gabriel Charmes, La Réforme de la Marine (Paris: Calmann Lévy, 1886), 56–57. 80 Aube, ‘La guerre maritime’, 332. 81 Shurkin, ‘Plus Ça Change’. For Further Literature on The Subject of the ‘Material School’ see, Kevin McCranie, Mahan, Corbett, and the Foundations of Naval Strategic Thought (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 2021), 55ff. 82 Gustav Gressel, ‘Waves of ambition: Russia’s military build-up in Crimea and the Black Sea’, European Council on Foreign Relations, 21.09.2021, https://ecfr.eu/publication/waves-of-ambition-russias-military-build-up-in-crimea-and-the-black-sea/; Tayfun Ozberk, ‘Analysis: Russia To Dominate The Black Sea In Case Of Ukraine Conflict’, Naval News, 30 Jan. 2022, https://www.navalnews.com/naval-news/2022/01/analysis-russia-to-dominate-the-black-sea-in-case-of-ukraine-conflict/; Welt, ‘Militärexperte Gressel: Darum hat die ukrainische Armee kaum eine Chance gegen Russen’, 24 Jan. 2022, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aNzUf3zllJ4. 83 Røksund, The Jeune École, 84, 132. 84 Ibid., 166. 85 Ibid., 228. 86 Speller, Understanding Naval Warfare, 60. 87 Monakov and Rohwer, Stalin’s Ocean-Going Fleet, 62–109, 221–4. 88 Andrew Lambert in December 2018. M.A. Seminar Navies and Seapower offered by the War Studies Department at King’s College London 2018–2019. 89 Sergej G. Gorschkow, Die Seemacht des Staates (Berlin: Militärverlag der Deutschen Demokratischen Republik 1978) [Morskai͡a Moshch‘ gosudarstva. Voenizdat 1976], 172, 355. 90 Ibid., 341, 372. 91 The author is aware of the ongoing debate on the extent to which the technological developments – especially the use of uncrewed systems – which have shaped the War in the Black Sea can be generalised. Jacquelyn Schneider and Julia Macdonald, for example, examine the relation between autonomous/uncrewed systems and revolutions in military affairs and come to the conclusion that ‘these systems may be most revolutionary is in cost mitigation—both political and economic.’ In contrast, Oleksandr Vel’moz͡hko does acknowledge the advantages, such as mass-production and cost-efficiency, inherent to a ‘young school’–inspired navy consisting of high-tech small crafts but also points at serious disadvantages connected with such systems, for example their inability to operate on the open ocean and their high vulnerability. Duncan Redford further elaborates on the limitations concerning the use of unmanned surface vehicles, among others, arguing that ‘environmental conditions in the Baltic and High North are such that they are highly likely to severely restrict the use of’ Ukrainian style one-way attack USVs. Jacquelyn Schneider and Julia Macdonald, ‘Looking back to look forward: Autonomous systems, military revolutions, and the importance of cost’, 162, Journal of Strategic Studies, 47/2 (2024), 162–184; Vel’moz͡hko,‘Rosiĭs’kyĭ flot znovu vidstupai͡e u bazi (VIDEO)’; Duncan Redford, ‘Maritime Lessons from the Ukraine-Russia Conflict: USVs and the Applicability to the Baltic and High North’, #GIDSstatement 11/2024, (14 Oct. 2024), https://gids-hamburg.de/maritime-lessons-from-the-ukraine-russia-conflict-usvs-and-the-applicability-to-the-baltic-and-high-north/. 92 For example, in September 1939, in December 1940 and October 1942. Bernd Stegemann, ‘Vierter Teil: Die erste Phase der Seekriegsführung’, 162, in: Klaus A. Maier, Horst Rohde, Bernd Stegemann and Hans Umbreit (eds.), Das Deutsche Reich und der Zweite Weltkrieg Vol. II (Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlagsanstalt 1979), 159–188; Werner Rahn, ‘The Atlantic in the Strategic Perspective of Hitler and his Admirals, 1939–1944’, 160, 164, in: N.A.M. Rodger, J. Ross Dancy, Benjamin Darnell and Evan Wilson (eds.), Strategy and the Sea: Essays in Honour of John B. Hattendorf (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press 2016), 159–168. 93 Michael Salewski, Die deutsche Seekriegsleitung 1935–1945 Vol. I (Frankfurt am Main und München: Bernard & Graefe 1970), 128; Stegemann, ‘Vierter Teil: Die erste Phase der Seekriegsführung’, 162; Rahn, ‘The Atlantic in the Strategic Perspective of Hitler and his Admirals, 1939–1944’, 160, 164. 94 See Adolf Hitler on 31 May 1943: ‘The number of resources that submarine warfare would tie up, even if it were no longer to achieve great success, is so extraordinarily large that I cannot allow the enemy to free up these resources’ Gerhard Wagner (ed.), Lagevorträge des Oberbefehlshabers der Kriegsmarine vor Hitler 1939–1945 (München: J.F. Lehmanns Verlag, 1972), 510. 95 Craig Symonds, ‘Alfred Thayer Mahan’, 33, in: Geoffrey Till (ed.), Maritime Strategy and the Nuclear Age (London and Basingstoke: MacMillan Academic and Professional Ltd, 1990)) [1984], 28–33. 96 Alfred Thayer Mahan, Lessons of the War with Spain and other Articles (Boston: Little, Brown, and Company, 1899), 300. 97 Elisabeth Braw , ‘The Invasion of Ukraine Is Causing Crisis at Sea’, Foreign Policy, 7 March 2022, https://foreignpolicy.com/2022/03/07/ukraine-shipping-supply-war/; Interview with a Representative of an anonymous maritime stakeholder that was heavily affected by the War in Ukraine on 25 October 2023. 98 Paul Adams, ‘Ukraine Claims to Retake Black Sea Drilling Rigs from Russian Control’, BBC, 11 Sept. 2023, https://www.bbc. com/news/66779639. 99 Instytut Viĭs’kovo-Mors’kykh Syl, ‘Doktrina: Viĭs’kovo-Mors’ki Syly Zbroĭnykh syl Ukraïny’, January 2021, 79, https://ivms.mil.gov.ua/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/doktryna_vijskovo-morski-syly-zbrojnyh-syl-ukrayinydiv.pdf. 100 Ibid., 76. 101 Militarnyi, ‘Frigates for Ukrainian Navy: the construction agreement was included into contract with the United Kingdom’, 25 Nov. 2021, https://mil.in.ua/en/news/frigates-for-ukrainian-navy-the-construction-agreement-was-included-into-contract-with-the-united-kingdom/. 102 Vitaly Semenov, ‘Prospects for the Development of the Naval Forces of the Armed Forces of Ukraine Until 2035’, Forum: ‘State Maritime Strategy. Development and implementation of maritime potential of Ukraine’ at the National Defence University of Ukraine on 23 May 2024. 103 Tayfun Ozberk, ‘Turkish Shipyard Lays Keel Of Ukraine’s 2nd MILGEM Corvette’, Naval News, 18 Aug. 2023, https://www.navalnews.com/naval-news/2023/08/turkish-shipyard-lays-keel-of-ukraine-2nd-milgem-corvette/. 104 UK Ministry of Defence, ‘British minehunting Ships to Bolster Ukrainian Navy as UK and Norway Launch Maritime Support Initiative’, 11 Dec. 2023, https://www.gov.uk/government/news/british-minehunting-ships-to-bolster-ukrainian-navy-as-uk-and-norway-launch-maritime-support-initiative#:~:text=The%20UK%20will%div20lead%20a,ships%20for%20the%20Ukrainian%20Navy. 105 Bern Keating, The Mosquito Fleet (New York, NY: Scholastic Book Services, 1969) [Originally Published 1963]. 106 Viĭs’kovo-Mors’ki Syly Zbroĭnykh syl Ukraïny, ‘Strategy of the Naval Forces of the Armed Forces of Ukraine 2035’, 11 Jan. 2019, https://navy.mil.gov.ua/en/strategiya-vijskovo-morskyh-syl-zbrojnyh-syl-ukrayiny-2035/. 107 Milan N. Vego, Naval Strategy and Operations in Narrow Seas, 2nd ed. (Abingdon and New York, NY: Cass, 2003), 110. 108 Interview with Admiral (ret.) Ihor Kabanenko on 06 November 2024. 109 Ihor Kabanenko, ‘Ukraine’s New Naval Doctrine: A Revision of the Mosquito Fleet Strategy or Bureaucratic Inconsistency?’, Eurasia Daily Monitor, 25 May 2021, https://jamestown.org/program/ukraines-new-naval-doctrine-a-revision-of-the-mosquito-fleet-strategy-or-bureaucratic-inconsistency/. 110 Prezydent Ukraïny, ‘Ukaz Prezydenta Ukraïny No. 217/2020’, 2020, https://www.president.gov.ua/docdivuments/2172020–34,085. 111 Interview with an authoritative Ukrainian source in June 2024. 112 Lee Willett, ‘Ukrainian Navy Chief Details Future Force Requirements’, Naval News, 18 Dec. 2023, https://www.navalnews.com/naval-news/2023/12/ukrainian-navy-chief-details-future-force-requirements/. 113 Sergej Sumlenny, ‘Naval Drones in Russo-Ukrainian War: from the current stand to the future development’, presentation given at the German Command and Staff College on 19 June 2024; Kramer, ‘In a Tough Year on Land’. See also various articles by the newspaper The Kyiv Independent. Militarnyi, ‘The Ukrainian Navy received naval drones equipped with strike FPV drone’, 8 Dec. 2024, https://mil.in.ua/en/news/the-ukrainian-navy-received-naval-drones-equipped-with-strike-fpv-drones/. 114 Andrii Ryzhenko, ‘Ways of Developing the Naval Capabilities of Ukraine to Ensure the Military Security of the State at Sea, Taking into Account the Experience of the Russian-Ukrainian war’, forum: ‘State Maritime Strategy. Development and implementation of maritime potential of Ukraine’, National Defence University of Ukraine on 23 May 2024. 115 Sanders, Deborah ‘Rebuilding the Ukrainian Navy’, Naval War College Review, 70/4 (2017), Article 5, 74; Jason Y. Osuga (2017), ‘Building an Asymmetric Ukrainian Naval Force to Defend the Sea of Azov, Pt. 2’, CIMSEC, 2 Oct. 2017, https://cimsec.org/tag/ukraine/page/2/; Defense Express, ‘Ukraine’s Navy Looking To Acquire 30 New Warships By 2020’, 12 Apr. 2018, https://old.defence-ua.com/index.php/en/news/4367-ukraine-s-navy-looking-to-acquire-30-new-warships-by-2020; Kabanenko, ‘Ukraine’s New Naval Doctrine’. 116 Adam Schreck and Hanna Arhirova, ‘Russia Unleashes Biggest attacks in Ukraine in Months’, The Associated Press News, 11 Oct. 2022, https://apnews.com/article/russia-ukraine-kyiv-government-and-politics-8f625861590b9e0dd336dabc0880ac8c; Michael N. 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Defense & Security
Kim Jong-un (2023-09-13) 01

Could North Korea be Persuaded to Renounce Chemical Weapons?

by Joel R. Keep

한국어로 읽기 Leer en español In Deutsch lesen Gap اقرأ بالعربية Lire en français Читать на русском North Korea is not going to give up its nuclear weapons any time soon. Pyongyang’s other strategic deterrent—a massive arsenal of chemical weapons—may prove a more fruitful target for disarmament. The strategic fortunes of North Korea in 2025 are very different to that of 2017. When Donald J. Trump first assumed the presidential office in January of that year, Pyongyang was still in the process of building a viable nuclear weapons platform that could target the continental United States. The 2017 North Korean Nuclear Crisis prompted the Trump administration to launch a concerted attempt to coerce Pyongyang into “complete, verifiable and irreversible denuclearisation (CVID).” Washington’s efforts, involving a mixture of brinkmanship, hard bargaining—and explicit threats via the deployment of serious military assets—ultimately failed. Later that year, the North successfully tested an intercontinental ballistic missile capable of reaching the US homeland. The subsequent 2018 summit between Trump and Kim Jong-un, held in Singapore, and the 2019 summit in Hanoi, led nowhere. When Donald Trump assumed office for the second time, in January of 2025, he struck a very different tone on Pyongyang. North Korea was now, he acknowledged, an established nuclear power. Today, in addition to properly miniaturised nuclear warheads that can be fit on several delivery platforms, Kim’s regime oversees an arsenal that includes intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBMs), intermediate range missiles (IRBMs), medium range ballistic missiles, submarine-launched ballistic missiles (SLBMs), and cruise missiles. Even if only a portion of these systems are fully functional, this still amounts to a serious military capability that cannot be forcibly removed, barring a massive conflagration. There is another, possibly more manageable class of strategic weapon that North Korea has been harbouring over several years—chemical weapons (CW). These are thought to include sulphur mustard, phosgene, Sarin and other nerve agents, some likely ranged against vulnerable South Korean population centres via artillery, missiles, and multiple rocket launchers. For several years now, South Korea’s Ministry of National Defense has estimated this stockpile comprises between 2,000 and 5,000 tonnes of CW agent. Pyongyang’s CW capability was demonstrated in grotesque miniature on 13 February 2017, when Kim Jong-un’s estranged half-brother, Kim Jong-nam, was killed with VX nerve agent at Kuala Lumpur International Airport. The public murder of Kim Jong-nam was conducted just as the 2017 North Korean Nuclear Crisis began, on the morning after Pyongyang successfully tested their Pukguksong-2 (KN-15) medium range ballistic missile over the Sea of Japan. Horrific as the VX murder was, it pales in comparison to the likely human impact of CW agents being used, in mass, against South Korean towns and cities in the event of a conflict. With North Korean nuclear weapons now an undeniable reality, those focused on arms limitation are left with few options in 2025. As such, Pyongyang’s chemical weapons portfolio might be worth putting on the negotiating table. North Korea still finds itself the target of sanctions and thus has an incentive to engage in disarmament talks of some kind. American officials, stung by the failure of 2017, might like to regain some clout with an achievable disarmament “win,” albeit of a non-nuclear kind. And of course, South Korea, home to the population that would suffer most from the North’s chemical weapons, would greatly benefit from seeing them verifiably destroyed.   There is a recent precedent for decommissioning an active chemical weapons program in the case of Syria. In (slightly) happier times, Russia and the United States pressured the embattled regime of Bashar al Assad into acceding to the 1993 Chemical Weapons Convention and forfeiting tonne-quantities of CW agent, after a series of government chemical attacks on civilians in 2013. Admittedly, the destruction of Syria’s chemical weapons stockpile was only a partial success, as evidenced by the resumption of nerve agent attacks in 2017, Assad’s uninterrupted “low level” use of improvised chlorine munitions, and recent revelations of a larger CW program than originally declared. And of course, facing as he was a determined insurgency and popular uprising, al Assad’s position in the 2010s was entirely different to that of Kim’s in 2025. However, if, as some have suggested, North Korea’s chemical weapons program was designed to fill a “deterrence gap” during the long march to acquire a viable nuclear weapons arsenal, Kim might be persuaded to engage in discussions on renouncing CW. This would be even more likely if Pyongyang has in fact already developed tactical nuclear weapons for shorter range use on the Peninsula, an objective Kim claimed to achieve in 2023. As a first step, perhaps a more fruitful model than Syria might be the 1992 India-Pakistan Agreement on Chemical Weapons, which saw the complete prohibition of CW on the subcontinent. Such an agreement could realistically be applied to the Korean Peninsula, where Seoul is no longer in possession of any chemical weapons as of 2008, and Pyongyang repeatedly claims not to have any CW themselves. Some may regard the idea of Pyongyang giving up any strategic weapon system as fanciful. Having signed a Comprehensive Strategic Partnership with Moscow in 2024 after committing thousands of troops to Russia’s war on Ukraine, North Korea’s degree of isolation within the wider geopolitical architecture has lessened, if only slightly. But while it may seem counter-intuitive, the Trump administration’s declared intention to re-establish closer ties with Vladimir Putin’s Russia might provide an opening for addressing the North Korea CW issue. This would require Moscow taking a more productive approach than it ultimately did in Syria, where an initial spirit of co-operation was later sullied by a determined Russian campaign to protect the Assad regime from accountability for the resumption of CW use, and other atrocities. Neither Washington, nor Moscow, can do much about North Korea’s nuclear arsenal today. Proposing negotiations on chemical weapons, however, might at least restart discussion on disarmament in one sphere, and could ultimately lead to progress on strategic weapons in general. Fully accounting for, and entirely destroying, the North’s chemical weapons would be a complex undertaking. Australia and the US at least have the technical capacity to assist in such an endeavour, should the political opportunity arise. Joel R. Keep is a PhD candidate at the University of New South Wales, where his doctoral work focuses on deterrence, non-proliferation and control of chemical and biological weapons. This article is published under a Creative Commons License and may be republished with attribution.

Defense & Security
Israel and Iran flags on Middle east map. High quality photo

Iran-Israel ‘threshold war’ has rewritten nuclear escalation rules

by Farah N. Jan

한국어로 읽기 Leer en español In Deutsch lesen Gap اقرأ بالعربية Lire en français Читать на русском Israel’s conflict with Iran represents far more than another Middle Eastern crisis – it marks the emergence of a dangerous new chapter in nuclear rivalries that has the potential to reshape global proliferation risks for decades to come. What began with Israeli strikes on Iranian nuclear facilities and other targets on June 13, 2025 has now spiraled into the world’s first full-scale example of what I as an expert in nuclear security call a “threshold war” – a new and terrifying form of conflict where a nuclear weapons power seeks to use force to prevent an enemy on the verge of nuclearization from making that jump. As missiles continue to rain down on both Tehran and Tel Aviv – with hundreds dead in Iran and at least 24 killed in Israel – the international community is witnessing the collapse of traditional deterrence frameworks in real time. Unlike traditional nuclear rivalries where both sides possess declared arsenals – like India and Pakistan, who despite their tensions operate under mutual deterrence – this new threshold dynamic creates an inherently unstable escalation spiral. Iran increasingly believes it cannot deter Israeli aggression without nuclear weapons, yet every step toward acquiring them invites more aggressive Israeli strikes. Israel, for its part, cannot permanently eliminate Iran’s nuclear knowledge through military means – it can only delay it through means that would seemingly guarantee future Iranian determination to acquire the ultimate deterrent. Under this dynamic, neither side can step back without accepting an intolerable outcome: for Israel, an Iran more determined than even in becoming a nuclear weapons nation capable of deterring Israeli action and ending its regional military dominance; for Iran, the risk of regime change through devastating Israeli strikes. The consequences of this deadly logic extend far beyond the Middle East. The preventive strike precedent The stakes could not be higher, as Iranian officials have called the attack “a declaration of war” and vowed that destroyed nuclear facilities “would be rebuilt.” Israel, meanwhile has warned its campaign will continue “for as many days as it takes.” Most ominously, the scheduled nuclear talks between the U.S. and Iran were called off, with Tehran dismissing any such dialogue as “meaningless.” This may suggest diplomacy’s window – which opened for just a few months under Trump’s second administration, after being closed during his first – was deliberately slammed shut. More broadly, the Israeli strikes mark a dangerous evolution in international norms around preventive warfare. While Israeli officials called this a “preemptive strike,” the legal and strategic reality is different. Preemptive strikes respond to imminent threats – like Israel’s 1967 Six-Day War against Arab armies preparing to attack. Preventive strikes, by contrast, target distant future threats when conditions seem favorable – like Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941. Israel justified its action by claiming Iran could rapidly assemble up to 15 nuclear bombs. Yet, as the International Atomic Energy Agency director, Rafael Grossi, warned beforehand, an Israeli strike could solidify rather than deter Iran’s nuclear ambitions, potentially prompting withdrawal from the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty. True to that warning, on June 16, Iran announced it was preparing a parliamentary bill that would see the country leave the 1968 treaty. Israel’s calculations in opting to strike build on the same erosion of international legal frameworks that has legitimized preemptive warfare since the United States’ military action in Afghanistan and Iraq after the Sept. 11, 2001 attack. America’s “war on terror” fundamentally challenged sovereignty norms through practices like drone strikes and preemptive attacks. More recently, operations in Gaza and elsewhere have demonstrated that violations of international humanitarian law carry limited consequences in practice. For Israel, this permissive environment has seemingly created both opportunity and justification regarding striking Iran – something that Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has been pursuing for decades. Already, Russia’s attacks on Ukraine’s Zaporizhzhia nuclear plant demonstrated nuclear facilities’ vulnerability in modern warfare. I believe Israel’s actions further risk normalizing attacks on nuclear infrastructure, potentially legitimizing similar preventive actions by India, China or the U.S. against emerging nuclear programs elsewhere. From strikes to regional conflagration Israel’s initial strike quickly triggered inevitable escalation. Iran’s retaliation came in waves: first hundreds of drones and missiles on June 13, then sustained barrages throughout the following days. By the morning of June 15, both countries were trading strikes on energy infrastructure, military bases and civilian areas, with no immediate end in sight. The Houthis in Yemen have since joined the fight, by launching ballistic missiles at Tel Aviv. Notably absent are Hezbollah, Hamas and Iran’s Iraqi militias – all significantly damaged by recent action by Israel. This degradation of Iran’s “axis of resistance” – its traditional forward deterrent – fundamentally alters Tehran’s strategic calculations. Without strong proxies to threaten retaliation, Iran is more exposed to Israeli strikes, making nuclear weapons seem like the only reliable deterrent against future attacks. The escalation pattern illustrates what can happen when when a government casts aggression as prevention. Having initiated the recent escalation of hostilities, Israel now faces the consequences. Iranian President Masoud Pezeshkian’s vow that destroyed facilities “would be rebuilt” underscores that Israeli action designed to prevent nuclearization may instead result in Iran pursuing it with renewed determination. The commitment trap This creates what strategists call the “commitment trap” – a dynamic where both sides face escalating costs but cannot back down. Israel faces its own strategic dilemma. The strikes may ultimately accelerate rather than prevent Iranian nuclearization, yet backing down would mean accepting a nuclear Iran. Netanyahu’s promise that current strikes are “nothing compared to what they will feel in coming days” shows how quickly strikes sold as preventative escalate toward total war. Unlike established nuclear powers that can negotiate from positions of strength, threshold states, such as Iran, face a stark choice: remain vulnerable to preventive strikes and regime change or race toward the protection that nuclear deterrence provides. North Korea offers the clearest example of this dynamic. Despite decades of sanctions and military threats, Pyongyang’s nuclear program has made it essentially immune to preventive strikes. Iranian leaders understand this lesson well – the question is whether they can reach the same protected status before suffering decisive preventive action. Traditional nuclear deterrence theory assumes rational actors operating under mutual vulnerability. But threshold wars break these assumptions in fundamental ways. Iran cannot fully deter Israeli action because it lacks confirmed weapons, while Israel cannot rely on deterrence to prevent Iranian weaponization because Iran’s nuclear program continues advancing. This creates “use it or lose it” dynamics: Israel faces shrinking windows to act preventively as Iran approaches weaponization; Iran faces incentives to accelerate its program before suffering additional strikes. The absence of effective external mediation compounds these risks. U.S. President Donald Trump’s response to the strikes reveals this dynamic starkly. Initially opposing military action and preferring diplomacy to “bombing the hell out of” Iran, Trump pivoted dramatically after the strikes began, and warned that “there’s more to come. A lot more.” His post on Truth Social – “Two months ago I gave Iran a 60-day ultimatum to ‘make a deal.’ They should have done it!” – demonstrates how quickly diplomatic efforts can collapse once threshold wars begin. Global implication The international response reveals how thoroughly Israel’s Operation Rising Lion has normalized aggression against nuclear facilities. While European leaders called for “maximum restraint,” none condemned Israel’s initial attacks. Russia and China condemned the attacks but took no concrete action. The U.N. Security Council produced only statements of “concern” about “escalation.” This normalization sets what I believe to be a catastrophic precedent. The threshold war model threatens to unravel decades of nuclear governance based on deterrence rather than preemption. Indeed, the Iran-Israel threshold war sets dangerous precedents for other regional nuclear competitions. Successful preventive strikes could incentivize similar actions elsewhere, eroding diplomatic nonproliferation efforts. Conversely, rapid nuclearization by Iran could encourage other threshold states, like Saudi Arabia, to pursue nuclear capabilities swiftly and secretly. When preventive strikes become the enforcement mechanism for nonproliferation norms, the entire architecture of nuclear governance begins to crumble. Without these frameworks, the world faces an unstable future defined by cycles of preventive strikes and accelerated nuclear proliferation – far more dangerous than the Cold War-era standoffs that shaped nuclear governance.

Diplomacy
Cyber Diplomacy Word Cloud. Key concepts and vocabulary in international digital cooperation and policy.

Cyber Diplomacy and the Rise of the 'Global South'

by André Barrinha , Arindrajit Basu

한국어로 읽기 Leer en español In Deutsch lesen Gap اقرأ بالعربية Lire en français Читать на русском On September 24, 2024, speaking from the gargantuan Kazan International Exhibition Centre during the BRICS Summit in Russia, Chinese President Xi Jinping emphatically extolled the “collective rise of the Global South [as] a distinctive feature of the great transformation across the world.” While celebrating “Global South countries marching together toward modernization [as] monumental in world history and unprecedented in human civilization,” the Chinese leader hastened to add that China was not quite a part of but at the Global South’s “forefront”; that “will always keep the Global South in [their] heart, and maintain [their]roots in the Global South. As emerging powers in the BRICS+ grouping thronged Kazan in a clear sign to the West that they would not unwittingly entrench Vladimir Putin’s full-scale diplomatic isolation, China’s message was clear: as a great power, they would not ignore or undermine the interests of the Global South.  The rise of the Global South as a central voice in world politics concurs with the emergence of cyber diplomacy as a diplomatic field. This is not a coincidence, as they are both intimately related to broader changes in the international order, away from a US-led liberal international order, toward a post-liberal one, whose contours are still being defined, but where informal groupings, such as the BRICS+ play a key role. One could even argue that it is this transition to a new order that has pushed states to engage diplomatically on issues around cyberspace. What was once the purview of the Global North, and particularly the US, is now a contested domain of international activity. In this text we explore how the Global South has entered this contestation, and how it articulates its ever-growing presence in shaping the agenda of this domain. However, as cyber diplomacy is mainstreamed across the Global South, it is unclear whether it will continue to be a relevant collective force in forging the rules and norms that govern cyberspace, or whether the tendency will be for each country to trace their own path in service of their independent national interests. The evolution of cyber diplomacy in a post-liberal world Cyber diplomacy is very recent. One could argue that its practice only really started in the late 1990s, with Russia’s proposal of an international treaty to ban electronic and information weapons. Cyber diplomacy, as “the use of diplomatic resources and the performance of diplomatic functions to secure national interests with regard to the cyberspace” (or more simply, to the “the application of diplomacy to cyberspace”  is even more recent, with the first few writings on the topic emerging only in the last 15 years.   To be sure, the internet was born at the zenith of the US-led liberal international order and was viewed as an ideal tool to promote based on liberalism, free trade and information exchange with limited government intervention and democratic ideals. Cyber libertarians extolled the virtues of an independent cyberspace, free from state control and western governments, particularly the US, did not disagree. They viewed the internet as the perfect tool for promoting US global power and maintaining liberal hegemony -“ruling the airwaves as Great Britain once ruled the seas.” The internet was ensconced in the relatively uncontested unipolar geopolitical moment. As the pipe dreams of a liberal cyberspace began to unravel with China and Russia pushing for an alternate state-centric vision of cyberspace, cyber diplomacy began to emerge both as a “response to and continuing factor in the continuing battle in and over cyberspace.” Explicitly, we can pin down its origin to two factors. First, is the perception that cyberspace was becoming an increasingly intertwined with geopolitics and geo-economics, with states starting to better understand its threats, but also its opportunities. Moonlight Maze, the 2007 attacks against Estonia or even Stuxnet were all cases that helped focus the mind of policymakers around the world. Second, the broader context of underlying changes in the international order necessitated cyber diplomacy as a bridge-building activity both to mitigate great power rivalry and to preserve the stability of cyberspace and the digital economy. Private companies, till then the beneficiaries of an open and de-regulated internet, also had to step in to ensure that their own interests and profit motives were safeguarded. These two intertwined factors dominated the discussions around cyber diplomacy for most of the 2000s. Initially, the predominant focus was arms control, reflected in the composition of the first few Group of Governmental Experts (GGE) iterations, the forum created by the UN General Assembly (UNGA) to discuss the role of information and communication technologies (ICTs) in international security. And although experts appointed by countries from the Global South were present since the first meeting in July 2004 the debate was very much framed as a discussion among great powers. As discussions progressed, and the GGE became a process in itself, some states outside the permanent members’ group started to engage more actively. This also coincided with the progressive creation of cyber diplomacy posts and offices in foreign ministries around the world. The field was becoming more professional, as more states started to realise that these were discussions that mattered beyond the restrictive group of power politics. Countries such as South Africa, Brazil, or Kenya started to push for the discussion of issues that affected a larger group of states, with a particular focus on cyber capacity building not just at the UN-GGE but also at other multilateral and multi-stakeholder processes and conferences including the World Summit on Information Society (WSIS), Internet Corporation for Assigned Names and Numbers (ICANN), Internet Governance Forum (IGF) and the International Telecommunications Union (ITU). The creation of a new Open-Ended Working Group (OEWG) at the UN First Committee (after an acrimonious diplomatic process) had an important effect in the diversification and democratisation of the discussions, as these were now open to the whole UN membership, and non-state actors were given the opportunity to observe and participate in these sessions. Further, in 2022, the UN set up an Ad Hoc Committee (AHC) to negotiate a cybercrime convention (adopted by consensus by UNGA members in December 2024) that also enabled all UN members to participate in the negotiations. The opening up of these processes exposed many states, particularly in the Global South, to the field, and it forced them to actively engage in discussions that until recently were seen as the dominion of great powers. The African Group and the G77 were now able to actively participate in the discussions, with frequent statements and contributions. Conceptualising the Global South in cyber diplomacy As cyber diplomacy progressed, policy-maker and academics alike understood global cyber governance to be divided along three main blocs of states. The status quo defenders were led by the US and (mostly Western) like-minded states, focused on the promotion of liberal values and non-binding norms shaped by a multi-stakeholder approach and adherence to existing tenets of international law but resisted significant changes in the governance of cyberspace. A revisionist group, led by Russia and China, advocated for a new binding international treaty and multilateral governance with the objective of guaranteeing security and order rather than necessarily promoting liberal values. Given this impasse, the role and influence of a group of states termed ‘swing states’ or ‘digital deciders’ has been recognized as critical to determining the future of cyberspace, most prominently in a detailed 2018 report by the Washington DC-based think-tank New America . This grouping that largely includes emerging powers from the Global South including India, Indonesia, Brazil, Mexico and South Africa, are understood as countries that are yet to “gravitate towards either end of the spectrum, some undecided and others seeking a third path.” Given these groupings, it is worth considering how the Global South fits in with present conceptualisations of cyber diplomacy, or whether it is a grouping at all. The term ‘Global South’ has come in for some criticism given the heterogeneity of countries it describes and its geographical inaccuracy (many Global South countries are not quite in the geographical South.) To be fair, the term never aspired for terminological accuracy and was instead coined to conceptually represent a group of countries during the Vietnam dissatisfied with the political and economic exploitation from the Global North. In that regard, Global South is a “mood,” a metaphor for developing countries aiming to find their way in an increasingly contested world. The war in Ukraine only augmented these fissures as the West were confounded by the Global South’s refusal to take a stand against brazen Russian aggression in Europe. The developing world saw it differently though: in an international order long-built on racism and inequality, expecting these countries to take a stand in their “petty squabbles” while they had also carried out “similarly violent, unjust, and undemocratic interventions—from Vietnam to Iraq” was a bridge too far. The Ukraine war helped clarify the combination of behaviours that countries within the Global South exhibit to attain this strategic goal: ideological agnosticism or neutrality; selective engagement with norms and rules; and finally, multi-pronged bilateral and minilateral groupings, with equidistance from the major powers. These three approaches helped illuminate the multiple different forms of agency that each developing country exercises vis-à-vis the international order based on their own interests and quest for strategic autonomy. However, what became evident as Russians bombs started to fall on the street of Kyiv, was already visible in these states’ interactions in cyber diplomacy. First, much of the Global South has refused to take an explicit stand on the controversial fissures that the leading powers have spent much of their time debating, including whether cyberspace governance should be state-centric or driven by new rules or existing international law.  Throughout the negotiating processes at the UN OEWG and AHC, as Russia and China clashed with the United States and its allies on the text of several controversial proposals, most developing countries took an agnostic approach, neither explicitly endorsing or opposing any of these potential treaty provisions. (There are naturally some exceptions: an analysis of voting patterns suggests that Iran and North Korea have firmly pegged themselves to the Russian and Chinese side of the aisle whereas some smaller developing countries have gravitated towards the US side of the aisle.) Second, there has been selective engagement when security or developmental interests are directly impacted. For example, in its joint submission to the UN’s Global Digital Compact (GDC), the G77+China asserted the need for equitable cross-border data flows that maximize development gains. The GDC is the UN’s first comprehensive framework for global digital cooperation. Long concerned about the misuse of the multi-stakeholder model by private actors for profit at the expense of developmental interests, the G77 also highlighted the need for “multilateral and transparent approaches to digital governance to facilitate a more just, equitable and effective governance system.” Finally, countries in  the Global South have entered into multiple technology partnerships across political and ideological divides. US efforts at restricting the encroachment of Chinese hardware providers like Huawei and ZTE into the core technological periphery of several Global South countries using allegations of surveillance were sometimes rebuked, given the Five Eyes’ proclivity and reputation for also conducting similar surveillance, including on top officials. By being agnostic on controversial ideological issues, countries in the Global South have been able to maintain ties with great powers on all sides of the political spectrum and foster pragmatic technological partnerships. Will the Global South rise? The Global South’s rise as a potent force in cyber diplomacy will, however, depend on three factors. Can it maintain ideological consistency on developmental and rights concerns, including on how the internet is governed at home? Can they continue to work with multiple partners without succumbing to pressure either from Washington or Beijing? Will emerging powers in the Global South (like India, Brazil and Indonesia) bat for the interests of the larger developing world, rather than simply orchestrating global governance to service their own interests or that of the regime in power? Given that cyber diplomacy emerged and developed as the playground of great powers, analysing it through the perspective of the Global South enables us to focus on cyber governance as an issue that goes beyond (cyber)security concerns – including economic development and identity (cutting across issues of race, gender, and colonialism) – and to see the world from a perspective that goes beyond the dynamics of great power competition. Analytically, it is useful to understand how these states position themselves and justify their actions on behalf of the whole. When looking inside the box, we see some collective movement but also a desire on part of the great powers, including China to incentivise the developing world to see the world as they do. The Global South remains relevant as a construct that captures the mood of the developing world on the geopolitics of technology of cyber issues. Its “great strength” will emerge not from swinging between Washington and Beijing or being orchestrated through New Delhi or Brasilia. It will instead come through standing their ground, in service of their own security and developmental interests in cyberspace. And as they progress, it remains to be seen whether the “Global South” retains its relevance as an analytical construct or whether it will give way to other denominations that better capture the developing world’s nuances and differences vis-à-vis the international cyber order. The text of this work is licensed under  a Creative Commons CC BY-NC 4.0 license.

Diplomacy
flags of Palestine and Israel against sky and old Jerusalem. Two States for two peoples. Two-state solution concept. Separate ownership of Jerusalem. The division of the city between two peoples.

A two-state solution is gaining momentum again for Israel and the Palestinians. Does it have a chance of success?

by Andrew Thomas

한국어로 읽기 Leer en español In Deutsch lesen Gap اقرأ بالعربية Lire en français Читать на русском As Israel’s devastating war in Gaza has ground on, the two-state solution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict was thought to be “dead”. Now, it is showing signs of life again. French President Emmanuel Macron is reportedly pressing other European nations to jointly recognise a Palestinian state at a UN conference in mid-June, focused on achieving a two-state solution. Macron called such recognition a “political necessity”. Countries outside Europe are feeling the pressure, too. Australia has reaffirmed its view that recognition of Palestine should be a “way of building momentum towards a two-state solution”. During Macron’s visit to Indonesia in late May, Indonesian President Prabowo Subianto made a surprising pledge to recognise Israel if it allowed for a Palestinian state. Indonesia is one of about 28 nations that don’t currently recognise Israel. France, Australia, the United States, United Kingdom, Canada, Germany, Italy, Japan and South Korea are among the approximately 46 nations that don’t recognise a Palestinian state.   The UN conference on June 17–20, co-sponsored by France and Saudi Arabia, wants to go “beyond reaffirming principles” and “achieve concrete results” towards a two-state solution. Most countries, including the US, have supported the two-state solution in principle for decades. However, the political will from all parties has faded in recent years. So, why is the policy gaining traction again now? And does it have a greater chance of success? What is the two-state solution? Put simply, the two-state solution is a proposed peace plan that would create a sovereign Palestinian state alongside the Israeli state. There have been several failed attempts to enact the policy over recent decades, the most famous of which was the Oslo Accords in the early 1990s. In recent years, the two-state solution was looking less likely by the day. The Trump administration’s decision in 2017 to recognise Jerusalem as the capital of Israel and move the US embassy there signalled the US was moving away from its role as mediator. Then, several Arab states agreed to normalise relations with Israel in the the Abraham Accords, without Israeli promises to move towards a two-state solution. The Hamas attacks on Israel – and subsequent Israeli war on Gaza – have had a somewhat contradictory effect on the overarching debate. On the one hand, the brutality of Hamas’ actions substantially set back the legitimacy of the Palestinian self-determination movement in some quarters on the world stage. On the other, it’s also become clear the status quo – the continued Israeli occupation of Gaza and the West Bank following the end of a brutal war – is not tenable for either Israeli security or Palestinian human rights. And the breakdown of the most recent ceasefire between Israel and Hamas, the return of heavy Israeli ground operations in May and reports of mass Palestinian starvation have only served to further isolate the Israeli government in the eyes of its peers. Once-steadfast supporters of Israel’s actions have become increasingly frustrated by a lack of clear strategic goals in Gaza. And many now seem prepared to ignore Israeli wishes and pursue Palestinian recognition. For these governments, the hope is recognition of a Palestinian state would rebuild political will – both globally and in the Middle East – towards a two-state solution. Huge obstacles remain But how likely is this in reality? There is certainly more political will than there was before, but also several important roadblocks. First and foremost is the war in Gaza. It’s obvious this will need to end, with both sides agreeing to an enduring ceasefire. Beyond that, the political authority in both Gaza and Israel remains an issue. The countries now considering Palestinian recognition, such France and Australia, have expressly said Hamas cannot play any role in governing a future Palestinian state. Though anti-Hamas sentiment is becoming more vocal among residents in Gaza, Hamas has been violently cracking down on this dissent and is attempting to consolidate its power. However, polling shows the popularity of Fatah – the party leading the Palestinian National Authority – is even lower than Hamas at an average of 21%. Less than half of Gazans support the enclave returning to Palestinian Authority control. This means a future Palestinian state would likely require new leadership. There is almost no political will in Israel for a two-state solution, either. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has not been shy about his opposition to a Palestinian state. His cabinet members have mostly been on the same page. This has also been reflected in policy action. In early May, the Israeli Security Cabinet approved a plan for Israel to indefinitely occupy parts of Gaza. The government also just approved its largest expansion of settlements in the West Bank in decades. These settlements remain a major problem for a two-state solution. The total population of Israeli settlers is more than 700,000 in both East Jerusalem and the West Bank. And it’s been increasing at a faster rate since the election of the right-wing, pro-settler Netanyahu government in 2022. Settlement is enshrined in Israeli Basic Law, with the state defining it as “national value” and actively encouraging its “establishment and consolidation”. The more settlement that occurs, the more complicated the boundaries of a future Palestinian state become. Then there’s the problem of public support. Recent polling shows neither Israelis nor Palestinians view the two-state solution favourably. Just 40% of Palestinians support it, while only 26% of Israelis believe a Palestinian state can “coexist peacefully” alongside Israel. However, none of these challenges makes the policy impossible. The unpopularity of the two-state solution locally is more a reflection of previous failures than it is of future negotiations. A power-sharing agreement in Northern Ireland was similarly unpopular in the 1990s, but peace was achieved through bold political leadership involving the US and European Union. In other words, we won’t know what’s possible until negotiations begin. Red lines will need to be drawn and compromises made. It’s not clear what effect growing external pressure will have, but the international community does appear to be reaching a political tipping point on the two-state solution. Momentum could start building again.

Defense & Security
trade war. Flag of the People's Republic of China. Flag of the United States. Taiwan flag, 3d illustration

The ‘Clash of Nationalisms’ in the Contentious USA–Taiwan–China Relations

by Orson Tan , Alexander C. Tan

한국어로 읽기 Leer en español In Deutsch lesen Gap اقرأ بالعربية Lire en français Читать на русском Abstract Why is it that cross-strait tension has been at its highest since the missile crisis of 1996? Why is the USA–Taiwan–China relations so contentious since 2016? This article argues that one oft-neglected factor—nationalism and identity politics—needs to be considered as a contributing factor to the heightened tension in this triangular relationship. In all three states, audience costs have significantly increased as domestic leaders and elites appeal to populist and nationalistic positions and rhetoric. Though studies of foreign policy often claim that ‘politics stop at the water’s edge,’ populist and nationalist rhetoric in the domestic politics almost always spill over to the international arena. The convergence of Trump’s America First and the US’ obsession with its global primacy underpins and drives America’s approach to its strategic competition with China. China’s continual reference to the hundred years of humiliation in the nineteenth century and early twentieth century and Xi Jinping’s ‘China Dream’ are ethnonationalist appeals that drives China’s fight for its ‘rightful place’ in the global pecking order. Taiwan’s deepening national identity and sociopolitical de-Sinicisation while contributing the development of a separate nation-state is a direct clash to the People’s Republic of China (PRC’s) claim of Taiwan as part of its one-China principle. This article will trace and examine the role of domestic nationalism and how it has contributed to make the Taiwan Straits a ‘hotspot’ in global geopolitics and geoeconomics. Introduction The introduction of the phrase ‘Taiwan Contingency’ to the global lexicon in 2020 served to highlight how the temperature of cross-strait relations between China and Taiwan had become a key barometer that the global community was paying attention to (Taylor, 2020). It is also not a coincidence that the increasing attention paid to the Taiwan Strait comes at a time when the USA–China relationship has devolved into great power strategic competition; the Pentagon had long used the term ‘Taiwan Contingency’ in its annual assessment reports on the US military’s ability to implement the Taiwan Relations Act, going as far back as the report from the year 2000, but it was only when USA–China relations worsened and cross-strait tensions created a worry about a flashpoint that the term became widely used (Department of Defense, 2000; Wuthnow, 2020). Much has been said about the increasing tension in cross-strait relations being a result of the overarching competition between the USA and China to define their positions vis-a-viz each other in the global hierarchy. These increasing tensions have often been attributed to the inherent rivalry between an ascending power and a declining one, most notably by Graham Allison in his book Destined for War (Hanania, 2021). The idea of the Thucydides Trap as floated by Allison has become the dominant narrative in the discourse surrounding the USA–China competition and has also contributed to an arguably narrow analysis of the strategic competition. Influenced by the analysis of the Thucydides Trap, China’s actions have been cast separately as being driven by security concerns and imperial aggression, feeding into the narrative of a power struggle in the international arena between the reigning superpower and a surging new power with desires to fulfil its civilisational creed (Mazza, 2024; Peters et al., 2022; Sobolik, 2024). This view seeks to portray China as a disrupting force that seeks to upend the status quo in the international system and thereby overturn the current rules-based international order, while casting the USA as a defender standing up against Chinese aggression, and has led to the USA–China strategic competition also being referred to a ‘new Cold War’ (Brands & Gaddis, 2021; Mazza, 2024). The rising tension in the Taiwan Strait has thus been seen as serving as a frontline to this ‘new Cold War’, and that the three-party relationship between the USA, China and Taiwan serves as some litmus test of American ability to contain a rising China (Lee, 2024). In fact, China hawks in the US and Taiwanese officials have often made use of this ‘new Cold War’ setting to frame the USA–China strategic competition as a competition between autocracies and democracies, and that Taiwan’s democracy makes it worth protecting (Hung, 2022; Lee, 2024). The Taiwanese government has consistently focused on a need to build an alliance of democracies that will support the island against Chinese aggression, highlighting shared values and like-minded partners in their discourse (Ripley, 2024). Yet, a broader analysis shows how framing the rising tension in the Taiwan Strait was a by-product of the greater geopolitical struggle between the USA and China in this ‘new Cold War’ ignores other possible factors. Most notably, the impact of nationalism and identity politics on the domestic sphere needs to be considered as a contributing factor to the heightened tension in this triangular relationship. While there has been increasing attention on nationalism as a characteristic of the international system since the time that scholars like Holsti (1980) brought up the need to emphasise the ‘prominence of nationalist behaviour’ in international relations (IRs) theory, the contemporary analysis of the Taiwan Strait issue shows that most still ignore the impact of domestic pressures on foreign policy choice by the three parties in this relationship; audience costs have significantly increase as domestic leaders and elites appeal to populist and nationalistic positions and rhetoric, and these populist and nationalist rhetoric in the domestic politics almost always spill over to the international arena (p. 25). In the United States, we have the convergence of Trump’s America First ideology and the US’ obsession with its global primacy that underpins and drives America’s approach to its strategic competition with China. While in China, the Chinese Communist Party’s (CCP) continual reference to the hundred years of humiliation in the nineteenth century and early twentieth century and Xi Jinping’s ‘China Dream’ are ethnonationalist appeals that are used to reinforce the Party’s right to guide China to fight for its ‘rightful place’ in the global pecking order. On the island, Taiwan’s deepening national identity and sociopolitical de-Sinicisation while contributing the development of a separate nation-state create a direct clash to the People’s Republic of China (PRC’s) claim of Taiwan as part of its one-China principle. This article thus seeks to trace and examine the role of domestic nationalism and how it has contributed to make the Taiwan Strait a ‘hotspot’ in global geopolitics and geoeconomics. This is done by first analysing the literature on nationalism and its role in IRs, following which, the sections examine the unique nationalisms of the United States, China and Taiwan and their role in increasing audience costs for the political elite, which will allow us to analyse how this clash of nationalism contributes to the Taiwan Strait becoming the global ‘hotspot’ that it is. Understanding Nationalism in International Relations As previously mentioned, the literature on IRs theory mainly focuses ‘on models of international interaction based on rational action and material structural factors, and exogenising the formation of preferences and the actors’ identities’ (D’Anieri, 1997, p. 2). Even theorists who have engaged with nationalism in international relations have admitted that ‘the relationship between the two has never been an especially easy one’ (Cox, 2019, p. 249). Yet nationalism is arguably central to the practice of IRs, given how nationalism is a key factor that makes it possible to conceive of states as coherent agents, as it creates the distinctiveness that allows a nation-state to define itself in its interactions with another (Kowert, 2012; Waltz, 1959). It is almost impossible to ignore the role of nationalism given the presumed equivalence of ‘nation’ and ‘state’ in IRs theories, and how nationalism is embedded in the conceptualisation of sovereignty, which serves as a fundamental factor in the interactions between states (Heiskanen, 2019, 2021). This is especially so given how the era of globalisation has come to an end, giving rise to a period of IRs that is characterised by securitisation and the preponderance of terms like ‘national security’ and ‘national interest’ (Heiskanen, 2019; Posen, 2022). In this contemporary age, there is a heightened awareness of the need to express and protect a state’s sovereignty in its international interactions, which therefore paves the way for nationalism to be the ‘centripetal force’ in driving interactions between nation-states (Kovács, 2022; Waltz, 1959, pp. 177–178). Nationalism can play such a role in defining interactions between nation-states because nationalism at its core is the conceptualisation of the identity of the polity. Modern nationalism in that sense is the expression of the principle that ‘nation = state = people’, with the purpose of binding the people to the state under one ‘imagined community’ to justify the existence of the nation-state as a construct (Anderson, 1983; Hobsbawm, 1990, p. 19). The nationalism that defines the nation-state is neither natural nor inevitable, but rather a by-product of a nation-building effort to craft an identity that will allow the state to distinguish and therefore differentiate itself in a world of nation-states (Connor, 1990; Gellner, 1983; Smith, 1986). This creates the peculiarity of nationalism in which they are essentially all the same, yet at the same time, individually unique by necessity. It is thus the interaction between the individual uniqueness while having the same broad goals that lead to nationalism influencing the interactions of nation-states in the international arena; arguably, it is not just the strength of nationalism that is important but also the content of the national identity that helps dictate the interaction between the states (D’Anieri, 1997). The creation and the make-up of nationalisms and national identities are thus of interests for this article’s analysis of the triangular relationship between United States, China and Taiwan. The literature on nationalism and national identity gives us a breakdown on the creation of nationalism. As a relatively modern phenomenon, the rise of nationalisms around the world is a direct result of the socioeconomic upheaval that marked the progress of modernity (Anderson, 1983; Gellner, 1983). The advent of industrialisation saw the collapse of the previous social structure that separated the agrarian, merchant classes and the nobility, and necessitated the development of a new identity that would bind diverse groups of people together under the banner of a nation-state. In that regard, the creation of nationalism was necessarily top-down, often driven by the needs of the new political elite who now exercised power in these emerging modern nation-states and formed through nationwide tools such as a national language and the national education system (Anderson, 1983; Gellner, 1983). The content of the national identity though could not simply be created out of thin air where the general form of nationalisms is the same and built on a structure of common identity and a sense of belonging to a community, the content of nationalisms needed to be specific to the groups of people living in the nation-state to produce the necessary uniqueness that would engender the desired outcome. As such, nationalisms and national identities were built on the pre-existing myths and histories of the people that inhabited the land or were present at the founding of the nation-state (Billig, 1995; Calhoun, 1997; Smith, 1986). This results in various contents of the nationalism that are part ethnic but also part mythological. The next section will examine the contents of the national identities of the United States, China and Taiwan in relation to this. American Exceptionalism: America the Great Like all nationalisms, American nationalism aims to ‘legitimise, mobilise and integrate the nation, thereby promoting the unity of the national people, and demanding a sovereign state for this nation’ (Trautsch, 2016, p. 291). Yet unlike European nationalism which had existing histories to build upon, American nationalism was ‘a model of nationhood that did not rest on historic claims to antiquity nor on any sense of distinctive peoplehood’, its foundations being very much rooted on mythologising the pilgrims’ journey across the Atlantic on the Mayflower and the nation’s beginnings as a settler nation (Doyle, 2009, p. 79). The pilgrims’ journey on the Mayflower marked the separation between the ‘Old World’ and the ‘New World’, providing dividing line that forms the basis for the conceptualisation of America as unique. While American nationalism does identify its roots with the colonial migration from Europe, the beginnings of this nationalism are tied specifically to the American Revolution and the Declaration of Independence (Doyle, 2009). The War of Independence marked a coalescing of consciousness in the 13 colonies that birthed a new nation, and gave even more credence to the distinction between Europe and the ‘Old World’, and the new American nation in the ‘New World’ (Commager, 1959; Doyle, 2009). This distinction was helped by the colonies’ history as an asylum for religious dissenters, impoverished servants and assorted refugees from Europe, allowing the colonies to divest itself of its British heritage (Doyle, 2009). Yet, certain aspects of British culture did influence the founding fathers of America in the conception of the American nation. While rebelling against their colonial masters, the founding fathers framed their independence as based on the British belief in the institutions of law, liberty and representative government mixed with a healthy dose of religiosity, which, given the lack of a feudal tradition and existing aristocracy, allowed for the creation of a national consciousness that celebrated equality without the necessary social revolution that marked the ‘Old World’ (Lieven, 2012). This allowed for the image of America as a newfound promise land, further playing into the distinction between the old and new, and as scholars from Tocqueville on have noted, birthed the idea of the exceptionalism of the American nation, the ‘shining city on the hill’ (Lieven, 2012). The subsequent expansion of the USA westward that saw the eventual formation of the geographical borders of modern America helped to further this sense of exceptionalism. As the expansion evolved from purchasing land to conflict with both the Native Americans and the Spanish colonial forces, American exceptionalism took on a sense of preordination (Doyle, 2009; Trautsch, 2016). Between the Revolution and the Civil War, American nationalists who recognised the need for strengthening the national consciousness began the enterprise by focusing on the fundamental idea that ‘Americans had a historic mission and that their bond of nationhood lay in their common destiny’; this required the positioning of America’s future place in the history of the world as one that was naturally glorious (Doyle, 2009, p. 86; Trautsch, 2016). To that end, the nationalists pushed the narrative of America’s ‘manifest destiny’, an unstoppable rise for the ‘freest, the happiest, and soon to be the greatest and most powerful country in the world’ (Doyle, 2009, p. 88). The successful expansion and victories in conflict that eventuated in the American nation covering the breadth of continental North America firmly entrenched this sense of preordained greatness for the nation. American nationalism had come to encompass both the civic values of liberty and respect for institutions, and the dreams of imperial grandeur that marked them for greatness; America was free and therefore exceptional, just as America was victorious and therefore exceptional. American exceptionalism, therefore, made the nation’s ascension to the top of the global hierarchy post-1945 easy. To the American nation, having believed in their destined greatness, a seat at the table presiding over global affairs was only to be expected. American nationalism had led the nation to believe in its destiny, and it saw itself as having been chosen, or even, anointed to lead (Lieven, 2012). Such exceptionalism naturally influences modern American foreign policy, as Kristol (1983) points out: Patriotism springs from love of the nation’s past; nationalism arises out of hope for the nation’s future, distinctive greatness…The goals of American foreign policy must go well beyond a narrow, too literal definition of ‘national security.’ It is the national interest of a world power, as this is defined by a sense of national destiny. (p. xiii) American nationalism shapes the way the USA views its interactions with the world, starting with its presumption of its deserved position at the top of the global hierarchy. The mythologising of its ‘historic mission’ and ‘manifest destiny’ helped to create the paradigm that the United States is the natural leader of the world, and its national interests include the protection of its position as the leader of the world. This creates a knock-on effect in its interactions with other states; if the United States is the natural leader, then others must listen and be led, and as the leader, challenges to its primacy cannot be tolerated. However, such conceptualisation brings it into a clash with the rising nationalism of China. Chinese Ethnonationalism: The China Dream Unlike American nationalism, modern Chinese nationalism is a relatively new phenomenon. In fact, the conceptualisation of a Chinese nation did not come about until the nineteenth century, as the Chinese tried to ‘create a modern identity to cope with conditions created by China’s confrontation with the Western world’, forcing the Chinese ‘to deal with foreign concepts, including that of nation, state, sovereignty, citizenship and race’ (Wu, 1991, p. 159). Furthermore, where American nationalism was centred upon its existence as a settler nation, Chinese nationalism could rest on both historic claims to antiquity and a sense of distinctive peoplehood, as Smith (1986) would have identified it, the roots of Chinese nationalism were definitely ethnosymbolic. The 1911 Revolution that saw the collapse of the Qing Dynasty and Imperial China marked the beginnings of modern Chinese nationalism (Townsend, 1992). Where previously the conceptualisation of Chinese identity was grounded in a rich cultural heritage of stories about the ‘abstract idea of the ‘Great Tradition’ of Chinese civilisation’, the encroachment of Western colonial forces in China led to rising discontentment amongst the Chinese public and the rise of intellectual writings about a modern form of Chinese identity which combined Chinese tradition and Western nationalism (Townsend, 1992; Wang, 1988, p. 2; Zheng, 2012). Dr Sun Yat-Sen, who is acknowledged as the father of the modern nation, pushed for the creation of a consciousness of nationhood in his Three Principles of the People, advocating for the creation of modern Chinese nationalism that was centred upon the Chinese people as a unified group, which he categorised as the Chinese ethnic community, ÖлªÃñ×å zhonghuaminzu (Fitzgerald, 2016; Tan & Chen, 2013; Wang, 1988; Wells, 2001). The end of the 1911 Revolution saw the establishment of the Republic of China (ROC) with Dr. Sun as the first president (Zheng, 2012). This marked the transition of China from imperial to statehood and saw the coalescing of the consciousness of Chinese nationhood. The ethnosymbolic roots of Chinese nationalism permeated this consciousness, even the name of the Republic, ÖлªÃñ¹ú zhonghuaminguo, emphasised the belonging of the state to the Chinese ethnic nation as the first three characters of the name represent the ethnic Chinese nation. So, Chinese nationalism can be said to also equate to Chinese ethnonationalism, and as a nationalism that rested on the rich history of the Chinese people and the abstract conceptualisation of the following the tradition of great Chinese civilisations, Chinese nationalism is also beholden to a lot of nostalgia. Where Dr Sun and his fellow intellectuals pushed the creation of Chinese nationalism by appealing to the cultural heritage of Chinese civilisation, they combined this with modern western nationalist ideology that focused on a struggle for sovereignty, in this case against the Western imperial powers and the Qing rulers. As such, this nostalgia is driven by the experiences of the Chinese people during the perceived ‘century of humiliation’ °ÙÄê¹ú³Ü bainianguochi starting from the Opium War till 1945, where China struggled for self-determination only to be invaded by the Japanese prior to the Second World War (Fitzgerald, 2016; Townsend, 1992; Zheng, 2012). China, as the empire-turned-nation and heir to the great tradition of Chinese imperial civilisation, was successively beaten and this was seen as a deep shame to the Chinese people who under successively foreign oppressors, including the Manchus of the Qing Dynasty, longed for freedom and a return to glory for the Chinese nation. As such, when Mao announced the founding of the PRC in 1949, the legitimacy of the CCP in ruling the nation was built on Chinese nationalism and the part that the party played in defeating the Japanese. The CCP’s victory in the civil war was arguably also because they presented themselves as even more nationalist than the nationalist Kuomintang (KMT) that they chased out of the mainland (Gries, 2020). This close connection between the party’s legitimacy and Chinese nationalism has seen the CCP often fall back on nationalistic propaganda to shore up its position of power, most notably after the events of Tiananmen Square (Gries, 2020). With his ascension to the presidency, Xi Jinping has continued the use of Chinese nationalism to firm up the party’s hold on power, having often referred to China’s rise as the country’s national destiny, referencing the country’s glorious past and harping on the ‘century of humiliation’ that denied China its place among the world’s powers (Tan, 2023). In this current form of Chinese ethnonationalism, Xi’s slogan of ‘national rejuvenation’ helps to reinforce the concept that China, once great but humiliated by the predations of Western colonisers, is now reclaiming its previous majesty to fulfil the ‘China Dream’ (Tan, 2023). This creates the sense that China must stand up to Western powers due to their rightful placed in the world while it must also continue to address the humiliations of the past, of which Taiwan serves as a reminder of, and this creates the setting for competition with the United States and rising tensions with Taiwan. Taiwanese Nationalism: De-sinicised and Independent The case of Taiwanese nationalism is an interesting one. Of the three nationalisms examined in this article, Taiwanese nationalism is the youngest one, having come into existence only in recently. Furthermore, unlike the United States and China, there is no continuity and coherence between the nation and the state in Taiwan. The state governing and exerting authority over Taiwan’s population embodies and merges two distinct political visions, each tied to a separate national identity: Chinese and Taiwanese, as the ROC is ‘a product of Chinese history and Chinese nationalism’, having been imposed onto the island when the KMT lost the civil war and fled the mainland (Clark & Tan, 2012; Lepesant, 2018, p. 65). In fact, while the KMT exercised marital rule over the island under the regimes of Chiang Kai-shek and Chiang Ching-kuo, the party tried constantly to impose an essentialist Chinese nationalism that clashed with the memories and experience of most of the island’s population, especially those who were raised under Japanese rule (Lepesant, 2018). This directly restricted the development of a national consciousness that centred on Taiwanese-ness, which explains the relatively late creation of Taiwanese nationalism. While overseas Taiwanese who were exiled by the KMT had started to display ideologies that was a semblance of Taiwanese nationalism, it was not until the 1980s and the gradual democratisation of the island that this nationalism began to take root (Chiou, 2003; Clark & Tan, 2012; Wakabayashi, 2006; Wu, 2004). With the increasing calls for political liberalisation in the 1980s, Chiang Ching-kuo began the initial process of Taiwanisation, allowing for the appointments of Taiwanese who were ±¾Ê¡ÈË benshengren (Han-Chinese who were on the island before the 1949 migration) to political positions even in his own administration (Cabestan, 2005). This kickstarted the process of nation-building, which only moved into a higher gear with the democratisation of the island in the early 1990s as there developed a political imperative to create an identity that could unify the people on the island (Wakabayashi, 2006). Lee Teng-hui, as the president of Taiwan who oversaw the democratisation process, put his support behind the Taiwanisation movement, supporting the development of a nation-building programme that would spur the adoption of Taiwanese nationalism, against the wishes of the KMT old guard. Lee’s action in building up Taiwanese nationalism is best seen in his propagation of the idea of a ‘new Taiwanese’ national identity in his speech to the National Assembly and more concretely, the change in name for the ROC to the ROC on Taiwan (Chiou, 2003; Jacobs, 2007; Wakabayashi, 2006). As such, the content of Taiwanese nationalism cannot be separated from the complex history of the island. The roots of Taiwanese nationalism are traced to the imperial expansion of Japan in the late 1800s, while previously the island had some contact with various Chinese dynasties and a brief colonial period by the Dutch, the Qing had neglected the island which meant that Japanese colonialisation marked the modernisation of the island (Cabestan, 2005; Wakabayashi, 2006). Japanese colonial rule also sparked the development of a pan-Taiwanese identity rooted in a struggle for independence, and distinctly anti-colonial and anti-Japanese (Brown, 2004). This pan-Taiwanese identity covered all the residents of the island who were not Japanese and therefore was not just restricted to the ethnic Han Chinese. With democratisation and the push for the ‘new Taiwanese’ national identity under Lee, this pan-Taiwanese identity was used as the foundation to build a new national identity. However, this also meant that the aspects of this identity that focused on independence were subsumed into the new Taiwanese nationalism, which was further enhanced by the experiences of the Taiwanese people under KMT rule (Wakabayashi, 2006). For Taiwan, both Japanese colonial rule and the experience of the civil war of post-1945 China became the existence of the ‘others’ to the development of the Taiwanese sense of self (Wakabayashi, 2006). This therefore meant that Taiwanese nationalism was first and foremost a nationalism for an independent Taiwan. In 2000, with the election of Chen Shui-bian from the then opposition Democratic Peoples’ Party (DPP) to the presidency, Taiwanese nationalism took another step in its evolution. No longer was Taiwanese nationalism simply about the independent sovereignty of the island whilst maintaining the cultural affinity for the Chinese tradition as espoused by Lee, but now there was a clear de-Sinicised aspect to Taiwanese nationalism and national identity (Hughes, 2013; Wakabayashi, 2006). This was driven by the policies of the Chen administration which included initiatives to rectify Taiwan’s name, changes to institutions designed to promote unification with mainland China, attempts to change the ROC Constitution and most importantly, the re-orientation of the education curriculum to focus more on Taiwan and less on the mainland. This resulted in the evolution of Taiwanese national identity towards one that increasingly sidelined the culturally ethnic Chinese component, instead insisting a cultural makeup that was simultaneously Han Chinese, Japanese and Aboriginal Taiwanese (Brown, 2004; Hughes, 2013; Wu, 2004). Yet such a nationalism brings along issues given the precarious relationship between the island and its cross-strait neighbour. The Clash of Nationalisms This article aimed to examine the role that nationalism played in the rising tensions in the United States, China and Taiwan triangular relationship. The idea that nationalisms can be antagonistic to each other and lead to conflict is not entirely new, despite the lack of IR theories that appropriately accommodate for the impact of nationalism. Samuel Huntington (1996) in his book, Clash of Civilizations, argues that future global conflicts will be driven not by ideological or economic differences but by cultural and civilisational divisions due to the increasing interaction between civilisations as a result of globalisation. Huntington (1996) predicted that a rising and assertive East Asia, on the back of rapid economic development, would increasingly come into conflict with Western civilisation led by the United States, in part due to a difference in cultural values and geopolitical goals. Where some would argue that Huntington’s claims were oversimplified and may broadly reinforce cleavages, especially in the aftermath of 9/11 and the War on Terror, his basic premise provides an interesting starting point to examining the impact of nationalism on the USA–China–Taiwan relationship. While Huntington viewed the incoming conflict as drawn along civilisational lines, assuming that cultural similarities and affinities would be sufficient to create groupings of nation-states around the world that would come into conflict with each other, recent events have proven otherwise. In fact, cases like Donald Trump’s threat to put a 25% tariff on Canadian imports when he assumes the presidency in January 2025 serve as a reminder that nationalism can easily overpower any sense of cultural affinity, even between nations as closely connected and allied as the United States and Canada (Hale, 2024). The advent of modernity brought about the rise of nationalism in the nation-state, and in the bid to give the nation-state’s existence legitimacy, each nationalism was propagated as individually unique. And as such, while cultural civilisations may not be a cleavage that thoroughly defines the world today, nationalism seems to be one that could fit into Huntington’s theory instead. Given the unique nationalisms of the United States, China and Taiwan covered in the sections above, it also appears that what is happening in this triangular relationship is a conflict arising from diametrically opposed nationalisms, a ‘clash of nationalisms’ if you will. Figure 1 summarises the interactions between the nationalisms of the United States, China and Taiwan.  Figure 1. Interaction Between Nationalisms. The United States having built a national identity that centred on a higher calling to being a model nation and leader of the world sees its position at the top of the global hierarchy as sacrosanct. The reason why the concept of the ‘Thucydides trap’ has gained so much attention is because there is an inherent acknowledgement that no matter the ills that may plague the United States, it is unwilling to see the global primacy it has established after the end of the Cold War being challenged (Mazza, 2024). However, China’s ascendency on the back of its rapid economic growth and the fact that it managed to emerge from the 2007–8 Great Financial Crisis relatively unscathed has given life to the belief in the PRC that their anointed time has finally come. Driven by Xi’s desire to push Chinese ethnonationalism as a foundation for the PRC’s assertiveness in the international arena, the world is now witnessing a China that seeks to act like a great power, including a demand for regional hegemony (Mazza, 2024). Yet regional hegemony for the PRC set it in direct conflict with the United States as regional hegemony in East Asia would mean the United States having to pull back on its global primacy and cede control over the region where it has key allies like Japan and South Korea. And this is exacerbated by the anti-West element of Chinese ethnonationalism that holds the West, with the United States being symbolic of it, responsible for the century of humiliation and the country not being the rightful great power it should have long been. As the saying goes, one mountain cannot contain two tigers, the nationalisms of both the United States and the PRC are dependent on the countries fulfilling their self-perceived destiny of greatness which naturally puts them into conflict with each other and is reflected in Figure 1. Similarly, Figure 1 also shows how the nationalisms of China and Taiwan are in conflict. As mentioned above, Chinese ethnonationalism and the ‘China Dream’ are also about washing away the shame from the century of humiliation. Part of this humiliation stems from the losses to the Japanese in the two Sino-Japanese wars, of which the loss of the island of Taiwan serves as a reminder of and it is for this reason that Xi has made clear that reunification between Taiwan and the mainland is a core part of his ‘national rejuvenation’ (Sobolik, 2024). Yet, in Taiwan, the evolution and rise of Taiwanese nationalism have led to a strong Taiwanese national identity that rejects its relationship with the Chinese mainland; increasingly Taiwanese are rejecting the Beijing-led discourse of a common identity between them and the mainland Chinese, and polling shows an increasing majority of Taiwanese no longer identify as Chinese (Fifield, 2019; Wang, 2023). This sets up the two nations in a path for conflict, a worse-case scenario that experts are predicting gets ever closer, as Taiwanese independence is a redline for China that cannot be crossed, but any form of reunification for the island is incompatible with their unique and independent national identity (Kuo, 2022; Wu, 2004). On the flip side, the relationship between American nationalism and Taiwanese nationalism is somewhat complementary, as shown in Figure 1. In examining American nationalism above, we pointed out how much of American nationalism is driven by American primacy in the form of American exceptionalism. This exceptionalism has been shown to have a messianic fervour, with Badri (2024) arguing that this has led to America’s interventionist foreign policy since 1991. Yet this messianic fervour makes American nationalism the perfect complement for Taiwanese nationalism. As Taiwanese nationalism tends towards de-sinicisation and independence, it has also gone through pains to emphasise its democratisation as a key characteristic of its nationalism. This results in America becoming a natural support pillar for the objectives of Taiwanese nationalism, while America’s messianic tendencies lead it to want to support Taiwanese democracy. As a result, American and Taiwanese nationalism become complementary existences. However, that the nationalisms are in conflict do not necessarily explain the existence of the triangular relationship that has seen the Taiwan Strait become the geopolitical ‘hotspot’ that it is. In order to do so, it is important to remember that nationalism is a double-edged sword when used by governments (Gries, 2020; Tan, 2023). Since 2016, we have seen the respective governments in all three countries increasingly turn to nationalism to further their own agendas (Kuo, 2022; Restad, 2020). Trump won his first presidential victory on the back of his ‘Make America Great Again’ slogan, which implied that the greatness of the American nation had been allowed to wane by his political predecessor. In doing so, Trump had unleashed a torrent of populism built upon conservative American nationalism that centred upon how powerful and great the country was perceived at the end of the Cold War and the longing for a return to those days (Renshon, 2021). In China, Xi, as previously mentioned, turned to the concept of the ‘China Dream’ in his bid to secure the legitimacy of the CCP and his hold over power. In his elaboration, it was the preeminent task of the CCP to restore the past glory of the nation and thereby, turn the dream of a great power nation into a reality, which would aid in making life better for the Chinese people (Bhattacharya, 2019). The rise of Chinese ethnonationalism has been successful in legitimising the position of the CCP in the wake of the political turmoil of the early 2010s and increasingly we have seen assertive Chinese expressions of this ethnonationalism, be it in its ‘Wolf Warrior’ diplomacy or cases of Chinese international students in university campuses in places like Australia, United States and the United Kingdom who openly challenge their lecturers and peers who comment on issues like Taiwan and Hong Kong (Tan, 2023). While in Taiwan, the DPP under Tsai Ing-wen latched on to the anti-Chinese sentiment of the 2014 Sunflower Movement and harnessed Taiwanese nationalism and desire to exist as a sovereign people to win the 2016 presidential election from the KMT (Chen & Zheng, 2022; Clark et al., 2020). Since then, the DPP has increasingly relied on Taiwanese nationalism to secure itself electoral victories, as it provides a clear delineation on the Taiwanese/Chinese cleavage between itself and the opposition KMT, while also allowing the government to create a narrative that differentiates Taiwan from the mainland, and therefore rouse support for its cause for international recognition (Lee, 2024). In each of these countries, we have seen political leaders turning to nationalism for their own domestic agendas. However, using nationalism in such manner also means that there is a significant consequence when the desires and dreams of the nationalism cannot be fulfilled, especially for regimes that have built their legitimacy on said nationalisms. To that end, the escalation of tension in the Taiwan Strait becomes understandable. Taiwanese nationalism has led to Tsai and the DPP to insist on Taiwanese sovereignty, even without the need for actual independence, but this has crossed the CCP’s red line and Chinese ethnonationalism necessitates a reaction in the form of increased military activity. The United States, having been bound to support Taiwan due to the Taiwan Relations Act, and in part to reassert its global hegemon status, thus sees it as imperative that it continue to be involved in the situation in the Taiwan Strait, either through freedom of navigation movements or selling of arms. As each side escalates their foreign policy response to the Taiwan Strait issue, audience costs for the political leaders also increase. Having unleashed the forces of nationalism, any semblance that the political leader is contemplating backing down would have serious implications on the stability of the domestic regime. This is even more so given the looming economic challenges in each of the three nations. Conclusion Therefore, the triangular relationship between the United States, China and Taiwan is not merely a product of power struggles or ideological conflicts but a ‘clash of nationalisms’. The interplay of unique national identities, reinforced by domestic pressures, has intensified the geopolitical stakes in the Taiwan Strait, transforming it into a critical hotspot in global politics. In understanding this, we can therefore see how nationalism is in fact an important factor that influences the interactions of states in IRs theories. Declaration of Conflicting InterestsThe authors declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship and/or publication of this article.FundingThe authors received no financial support for the research, authorship and/or publication of this article.Cite: Tan, O., & Tan, A. C. (2025). 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Energy & Economics
 March 28, 2018, the US and Chinese flags and texts at a studio in Seoul, Korea. An illustrative editorial. trade war

International trade war - Spice Road against Silk Road

by Joon Seok Oh

한국어로 읽기 Leer en español In Deutsch lesen Gap اقرأ بالعربية Lire en français Читать на русском AbstractPurpose The purpose of this paper is to analyse the international political economy of Korea and its effects due to geopolitical tension between China and the USA. Design/methodology/approach Economic war between China and the USA has prolonged longer than expected. Aftermath of the COVID-19 pandemic, reforming the supply chain has been the centre of economic tension between China and the USA. Quite recently, with the rapid expansion of Chinese e-commerce platforms, distribution channels come upon a new economic tension between the two. And now is the time to pivot its pattern of conflict from competition into cooperation. In this end, economic diplomacy could be a useful means to give a signal of cooperation. From the view of economic diplomacy, this paper tries to analyse the projected transition of economic war between China and the USA with its implication on the trade policy of Korea. Findings As an implementation of economic diplomacy, China suggested the Belt and Road Initiative (BRI), enhancing trade logistics among related countries to gain competitiveness. In 2023, the Biden administration suggested the India-Middle East and Europe Economic Corridor as a counter to BRI, which will be a threshold for changing trade policy from economic war into economic diplomacy. As a result, it is expected China and the USA will expand their economic diplomacy in a way to promote economic cooperation among allied states, while the distribution channel war would continue to accelerate the economic tension between China and the USA. Korea has to prepare for and provide measures handling this geopolitical location in its trade policy or economic diplomacy. Originality/value This research contributes to the awareness and understanding of trade environments from the perspective of economic diplomacy. 1. Introduction The advent of globalisation has led to widespread economic integration, creating global production networks and markets. However, the COVID-19 pandemic has acted as a significant setback to this trend. In the wake of COVID-19, an economic war has arisen between China and the USA, centred on the restructuring of global supply chains following widespread disruptions. International political economy (IPE) examines the power dynamics between states and the structures of influence within regional economies. Consequently, economic diplomacy has gained unprecedented attention. Economic diplomacy focuses on government actions regarding international economic issues, distinct from political diplomacy through its market-oriented approach in foreign policy. Putnam (1988) categorises economic diplomacy into two levels: unilateralism and bilateralism. Unilateral economic diplomacy (or unilateralism) often relies on hard power, involving decisions on trade liberalisation or market protection without negotiation. Bilateral economic diplomacy (or bilateralism) or multilateral economic diplomacy (or multilateralism), by contrast, involves negotiation among trade partners, resulting in agreements such as regional or global free trade agreements (FTAs). A vast range of state or non-state actors engage in economic diplomacy, navigating the complex interplay between international and domestic factors. Defining economic diplomacy is extremely challenging, but one useful definition is “the broad concept of economic statecraft, where economic measures are taken in the pursuit of political goals, including punitive actions such as sanctions” (Blanchard and Ripsman, 2008).  Figure 1 Recent trend of economic diplomacy To exert influence internationally, ministers and heads of government strive to demonstrate their capacity for national security through two primary approaches, as shown in Figure 1 (above): economic war (or competition) and economic diplomacy (or international cooperation). In the context of global supply chain restructuring, the economic conflict between China and the USA has intensified, marked by threats of supply chain disruptions. This has led to emerging strategies aimed at “crowding out” the USA from global supply chains (去美戰略) or excluding China through alliances such as the Allied Supply Chain and Chip 4. While economic war is inherently “temporary” due to its painstaking nature, economic diplomacy or international cooperation offer a more “long-term” approach because it is gains-taking. This paper analyses the factors contributing to the prolonged nature of this economic war and explores potential outcomes of the supply chain tensions between China and the USA from the perspectives of IPE or geo-economics. In conclusion, it highlights the importance of preparing for trade policy adjustments and strategic economic diplomacy. 2. International trade war and strategic items2.1 Supply chain The supply chain encompasses a network of interconnected suppliers involved in each stage of production, from raw materials and components to the finished goods or services. This network can include vendors, warehouses, retailers, freight stations and distribution centres. Effective supply chain management is a “crucial process because an optimised supply chain results in lower costs and a more efficient production cycle” [1]. Within the supply chain, a leading company typically holds governance power, enabling it to coordinate scheduling and exercise control across the interconnected suppliers, resulting in reduced costs and shorter production times (Gereffi et al., 2005) [2]. Since the 2000s, forward and backward integration have been key strategies for managing time, cost and uncertainty in supply chains. For example, Toyota’s Just-In-Time (JIT) system demonstrated the efficiency of locally concentrated supply chains until disruptions from the 2011 East Japan Earthquake and the Thailand flood. Following supply chain shutdowns in 2020, many businesses shifted from local to global supply chains, utilising advancements of the information technology (IT) and transportation technologies to geographically diversify operations. As the need for a systematically functioning global supply chain has grown, a leading nation, much like a leading company, often assumes governance power in international trade and investment, as illustrated in Figure 2 (below), by aligning with the leadership of a dominant market competitiveness, which makes this leadership valuable.  Figure 2 Supply chain The COVID-19 pandemic dealt a severe blow to the global supply chain, causing sudden lockdowns that led to widespread supply chain disruptions. To mitigate the risks of future global disruptions, supply chains have begun restructuring to operate on a more regionally segmented basis. In this shift toward regional supply chains, China and the USA are at the centre, drawing allied countries within their spheres of influence. This alignment helps explain why the economic war between China and the USA has lasted longer than anticipated. 2.2 Strategic items China has restricted exports of two rare metals, gallium and germanium, which are critical to semiconductor production. Kraljic (1983) highlighted the importance of managing “strategic items” within the framework of supply chain management, as shown in Figure 3. Kraljic emphasises the need to strengthen and diversify critical items. The Kraljic matrix provides a valuable tool for identifying essential items that require focused management within the supply chain.  Figure 3 Kraljic matrix Kraljic identified the importance of managing “bottleneck items” in strategic supply chain management – items that present high supply risk but have relatively low business value. Due to the potential costs associated with non-delivery or compromised quality of strategic items, these must be closely monitored and controlled. From a risk management perspective, establishing medium-term business relationships and collaboration with suppliers is essential. For example, South Korea imports over 90% of its urea for agricultural and industrial purposes from China [3]. Heavily dependent on China for urea supplies due to pricing factors, Korea faced challenges when China imposed export controls on urea, underscoring Korea’s vulnerability within China’s sphere of influence. The European Union (EU) also faces challenges with critical raw materials (CRMs). China remains the EU’s sole supplier of processed rare earth elements, while Chile supplies 79% of its lithium. In response, the EU introduced the CRM Act (CRMA) to support projects aimed at increasing “the EU’s capacity to extract, process, and recycle strategic raw materials and diversify supplies from the third countries” [4]. 2.3 Resilient supply chain alliance In contrast to China’s approach of leveraging supply disruptions to strengthen its influence, the Biden administration in the USA has adopted a cooperative approach focused on building resilient supply chains (Pillar 2) through the Indo-Pacific Economic Framework (IPEF), which includes 14 member countries [5]. The need for resilient supply chains has been further underscored by the Russia–Ukraine crisis. The IPEF aims to address supply chain vulnerabilities by fostering global efforts to reduce risks associated with concentrated, fragile supply chains [6].  Figure 4 Resilient supply chain alliance In Figure 4, the EU Commission presented the Single Market Emergency Instrument (SMEI) in September 2022, a crisis governance framework designed to ensure the availability of essential goods and services during future emergencies. The SMEI operates on three levels: contingency planning, vigilance and emergency. The contingency planning phase focuses on collaboration among member states to mitigate supply chain disruption and monitor incidents. The vigilance phase can be activated when a significant disruption is anticipated, enabling specific measures such as mapping and monitoring supply chains and production capacities. Finally, the emergency phase is activated in cases of severe disruption to the functioning of the single market [7]. Establishing a resilient supply chain through international cooperation may be appealing, yet the reality often falls short of the ambition. In South Korea, the IPEF took effect on 17 April 2024, after an extended negotiation process, marking the first multilateral agreement on supply chains. As a result, during non-crisis periods, the 14 member countries will collaborate to strengthen international trade, investment and trade logistics. In times of crisis, member countries will activate a “crisis response network”. Conversely, opportunities for negotiation with China, South Korea’s largest trading partner, are essential for building supply chain resilience [8]. China has pursued an industrial policy focused on enhancing its supply chain management capabilities. In the semiconductor sector, the decoupling between China and the USA has become increasingly evident. Contrary to expectations, China has adopted a policy of internalising its supply chains, returning to the integration strategies of the 2000s rather than furthering globalisation. A promising opportunity for transformation between the two countries has emerged recently. Since 2015, China and South Korea have maintained bilateral FTA, and with the second phase of FTA negotiations currently underway, there is an opportunity to strengthen trade and investment ties, fostering positive progress through international cooperation. 2.4 China manufacturing exodus During the COVID-19 pandemic, China imposed sudden lockdowns without prior notice or preparation, halting production and logistics cycles. This “zero COVID” policy may have triggered a shift towards “de-risking” China from supply chain disruptions. Although China still offers significant advantages as “the factory of the world,” with vast market potential, prolonged trade tensions with the USA, intensified during the Trump administration, have prompted global manufacturers with substantial USA market bases to relocate operations amid rising geopolitical uncertainties. For example, Nike and Adidas have shifted much of their footwear manufacturing to Vietnam, Apple has begun iPhone production at a Foxconn in Chennai, India, and AstraZeneca has contracted production with India’s Serum Institute. In the pre-globalised era, defining the Rule of Origin (ROO) was straightforward, as a product’s components were usually manufactured and assembled within a single country. However, with the complexity of global supply chains, particularly since 2012, determining ROO has become a time-consuming and subjective process. ROO are classified as either non-preferential or preferential. The USA applies non-preferential ROO to restrict imports from countries like Cuba, Iran and North Korea, while offering trade preference programmes for others. Preferential ROO are used to determine duty-free eligibility for imports from approved countries [9], whereas non-preferential ROO play a crucial role in “country of origin labelling, government procurement, enforcement of trade remedy actions, compilation of trade statistics, supply chain security issues.” [10] China manufacturing exodus may negatively impact capital inflows into Hong Kong, traditionally seen as the Gateway to China. In 2023, Hong Kong’s initial public offering volume fell to a 20-year low of $5.9bn [11]. While China-oriented business remains in Hong Kong, which returns fully to Chinese control in 2047, non-China-oriented businesses have migrated to Singapore. As the certainty of contract and ownership rights forms the foundation of capitalism, this capital flight from Hong Kong is likely to persist. 3. Trade logistics and economic corridors Globalisation has allowed supply chains to leverage interdependence and interconnectedness, maximising efficiency. However, while these efficiencies have been beneficial, they have also created a fertile ground for friction between trade partners due to a “survival of the fittest” mindset and the principle of “winner takes all.” This interdependence has also highlighted vulnerabilities; the global supply chain struggled to manage the disruptions caused by COVID-19, prompting a shift towards regional integration initiatives, such as Association of Southeast Asian Nations, Regional Comprehensive Economic Partnership, United States–Mexico–Canada Agreement and Comprehensive and Progressive Agreement for Trans-Pacific Partnership. As the global economy seeks stability, collaboration over competition has become increasingly essential, with economic diplomacy emerging as a priority. The prolonged economic war between China and the USA arguably needs to shift towards economic diplomacy. The global supply chain is restructuring into regional supply chains, building resilience by operating in regional segments that can withstand crises. Michael Porter introduced the concept of value chain as “a set of activities that a firm performs to deliver a valuable product or service to the market.” [12] Complex finished goods often depend on global value chains, traversing multiple countries. As shown in Figure 5, the value chain consists of supply chain and trade channel components. While the focus has traditionally been on which country holds lead status within a regional supply chain, the emphasis is now shifting to how these regional segments can be interconnected and relayed. In this context, the supply chain competition may evolve into a “channel war” in international trade, where trade logistics will centre on the internal flow of goods, standardising channel processes and establishing authority over these channels.  Figure 5 Supply chain v. trade channel 3.1 Trade logistics It is natural for governments to seek environments that enhance competitiveness within in their countries. In terms of trade, effective trade logistics are essential for maintaining competitive advantage. As a prerequisite, a strong IT management infrastructure is indispensable. As shown in Figure 6, trade logistics encompass the internal flow of goods to market, integrating physical infrastructure with operating software – such as transport hubs, warehouses, highways, ports, terminals, trains and shipping vessels. Key areas of conflict in trade logistics involve the standardisation of channel processes and determining who holds governance over operation of these logistics systems. This is equally relevant within the digital economy. Recently, Chinese e-commerce – often referred to as C-commerce – has aggressively sought to gain control over digital distribution channels, interconnected delivery networks and trade logistics via digital platforms. Chinese platforms such as Taobao, Temu and AliExpress are actively working to increase their monthly active users (MAUs), positing themselves as counterweights to USA-based platforms such as Amazon and eBay in digital trade [13].  Figure 6 Trade logistics When the agenda of establishing international trade logistics is introduced to relevant trade members across various countries, initial progress and effective responses are often achieved. However, efforts soon encounter obstacles related to standardising logistics processes and establishing operational governance. Greater reliance on international institutions could help resolve these issues (Bayne, 2017). Yet governments frequently prioritise domestic interests, and after prolonged negotiations, the risk of international agreements failing increases. Amid the economic war between China and the USA, China launched a trade logistics initiative known as the Belt and Road Initiative (BRI), or One Belt One Road, in 2013. Often referred to as the New Silk Road, the BRI aims to establish economic corridors for trade logistics. The World Bank estimates that the BRI could boost trade flows by 4.1% and reduce trade costs by 1.1% [14]. In response, the Biden administration proposed the India-Middle East and Europe Economic Corridor (IMEC) in September 2023 to strengthen transport and communication links between Europe and Asia as a countermeasure to China’s BRI. IMEC has been well received by participating countries, with expectations of fostering economic growth, enhancing connectivity and potentially rebalancing trade and economic relations between the EU and China [15]. Both BRI and IMEC are ambitious projects aimed at boosting international trade through substantial investments in trade logistics infrastructure. Each seeks to assert governance over international trade channels, signalling that the supply chain war may soon evolve into a trade channel war between China and the USA. 3.2 Economic corridors Economic corridors are transport networks designed to support and facilitate the movement of goods, services, people and information. These corridors often include integrated infrastructure, such as highways, railways and ports, linking cities or even countries (Octaviano and Trishia, 2014). They are typically established to connect manufacturing hubs, high-supply and high-demand areas, and producers of value-added goods. Economic corridors comprise both hard infrastructure – such as trade facilities – and soft infrastructure, including trade facilitation and capacity-building measures. The Asian Development Bank introduced the term “economic corridor” in 1998 to describe networks connecting various economic agents within a region [16]. Economic corridors are integrated trade logistics networks, providing essential infrastructure for connecting regional segments of supply chains. As supply chains increasingly operate in regional “chunks,” linking these segments becomes ever more important. Economic corridors typically include a network of transport infrastructure, such as highways, railways, terminals and ports. Initiatives like the BRI and IMEC use economic corridors as instruments of economic diplomacy, shifting strategies from hard power to soft power, as shown in Figure 7. Because less-developed or developing countries often lack sufficient funding to invest in trade logistics, they tend to welcome these initiatives from developed countries, which offer international collaboration and support. However, these initiatives usually come with the condition that participating countries must accept standardised trade processes and governance led by the sponsoring developed country.  Figure 7 Economic corridor initiatives as economic diplomacy To succeed, economic corridors must meet three key conditions [17]. First, government intervention is essential, as economic corridor initiatives primarily involve public infrastructure investments beyond the scope of the private sector. In realising these projects, governments must reconcile three tensions to ensure their policies are mutually supportive: tensions between politics and economics, between international and domestic pressures and between governments and other stakeholders. Second, intermediate outcomes should be measured and demonstrated as results of economic corridors, allowing participants to experience tangible benefits throughout these longer-term projects. Finally, economic corridors should deliver broader benefits. Participants need incentives to utilise the infrastructure sustainably. These benefits may extend beyond economic welfare, such as wages and income, to include social inclusion, equity and environmental gains, which support the long-term viability of the infrastructure. 4. BRI vs IMEC4.1 Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) - Silk Road The BRI can be a modern-day realisation of the Silk Road concept, connecting Europe as a market base with China as a production base. Unlike the ancient Silk Road, which connected trade routes across Eurasia, the BRI poses potential challenges due to its extensive connectivity. Firstly, there are social and environmental externalities, such as increased congestion and accidents from concentrating traffic flows through limited links and nodes within trade networks. Secondly, while the connectivity may benefit the production and market bases at either end, regions situated between these hubs, through which highways and railways pass, may gain minimal advantage. Thirdly, there is often a mismatch between where costs and benefits are realised. Transit regions that facilitate network traffic often see fewer direct benefits compared to high-density nodes within the network. 4.2 India-Middle East and Europe Economic Corridor (IMEC) - The Spice Road The ancient Spice Roads once connected the Middle East and Northeast Africa with Europe, facilitating the exchange of goods such as cinnamon, ginger, pepper and cassia, which, like silk, served as a form of currency. The IMEC proposes a modern route from India to Europe through the United Arab Emirates (UAE), Saudi Arabia, Israel and Greece. Since its announcement in September 2023, some regional experts have expressed reservations about its feasibility, particularly regarding the connection between the Middle East and Israel. The project has faced delays due to the Israel–Hamas war. Despite these challenges, IMEC holds potential to drive economic growth and strengthen connectivity, especially as countries like Vietnam and India emerge as alternative manufacturing bases for companies relocating from China. For Saudi Arabia and the UAE, IMEC is not viewed as a challenge to China but rather as an opportunity to diversify their economies and solidify their roles within the Middle East region [18]. 5. Conclusion A new trade war between China and the USA has begun, with the Biden Administration’s introduction of IMEC as a counter to China’s BRI. This shift could soon transform the nature of economic war from a focus on supply chains to one on trade channels. The China manufacturing exodus was further accelerated by supply disruptions during the COVID-19 pandemic. Amidst the economic tensions between China and the USA, the restructuring of global supply chains into regional networks has made significant progress. With China maintaining its stance on export controls for strategic items, South Korea must prepare for resilient supply chain management. In relation to China–Korea FTA, which is currently undergoing its second phase of negotiation, South Korea should seek clarity on the transparency of China’s strategic item controls. The Committee on Foreign Investment in the United States (CFIUS) plays a key role in monitoring the quality of inbound investments; similarly, South Korea is experiencing increased inbound investment due to the manufacturing shift from China and should apply similar standards to evaluate investment quality. This emerging economic war between China and the USA is now marked by the competing initiatives of the BRI and IMEC. The BRI can be viewed as a modern Silk Road, linking China with Europe, while the IMEC seeks to establish a trade logistics corridor connecting Saudi Arabia, the UAE, Israel and Greece. The South Korean Government should take proactive steps to prepare for the evolving dynamics of the trade war between China and the USA. CitationOh, J.S. (2025), "International trade war - Spice Road against Silk Road", International Trade, Politics and Development, Vol. 9 No. 1, pp. 2-11. https://doi.org/10.1108/ITPD-06-2024-0031  Notes 1. https://www.investopedia.com/terms/s/supplychain.asp2. According to Gary Gereffi et al, 5 governance types of a lead company could be categorised as market, modular, relational, captive and hierarchy.3. Korea imports urea from 12 countries including Qatar, Vietnam, Indonesia and Saudi Arabia, in addition to China.4. https://single-market-economy.ec.europa.eu/sectors/raw-materials/areas-specific-interest/critical-raw-materials/strategic-projects-under-crma_en5. IPEF was launched on May 23,2022 at Tokyo. 14 member countries are Australia, Brunei, Fiji, India, Indonesia, Japan, Republic of Korea, Malaysia, New Zealand, Philippines, Singapore, Thailand, Vietnam and the USA. 4 Pillar of IPEF are Trade (Pillar 1), Supply Chain (Pillar 2),Clean Economy (Pillar 3) and Fair Economy (Pillar 4).6. Critics say “lack of substantive actions and binding commitments, instead focusing on process-driven framework building.” https://www.piie.com/blogs/realtime-economics/its-time-ipef-countries-take-action-supply-chain-resilience7. https://ec.europa.eu/commission/presscorner/detail/en/ip_22_54438. As of 2023, the first-largest trade partner of Korea is China (Trade volume of $267.66bn), the second is the US ($186.96bn) and the third is Vietnam ($79.43bn)9. As preferential ROO contain the labour value content requirement in the USMCA, it could increase compliance costs for importers. https://crsreports.congress.gov/product/pdf/RL/RL3452410. USITC(1996), Country of Origin Marking: Review of Laws, Regulations and Practices, USITC Publication 2975, July, pp. 2–411. https://www.barrons.com/articles/hong-kong-financial-center-china-46ba5d3612. Porter identifies a value chain broken in five primary activities: inbound logistics, operations, outbound logistics, marketing and sales and post-sale services. https://www.usitc.gov/publications/332/journals/concepts_approaches_in_gvc_research_final_april_18.pdf13. MAU is a metric commonly used to identify the number of unique users who engage with apps and website. MAU is an important measurement to the level of platform competitiveness in the digital trade logistics or e-commerce industry.14. https://home.kpmg/xx/en/home/insights/2019/12/china-belt-and-road-initiative-and-the-global-chemical-industry.html15. https://www.bradley.com/insights/publications/2023/10/the-india-middle-east-europe-economic-corridor-prospects-and-challenges-for-us-businesses16. The Asian Development Bank (ADB), which first used the term in 1998, defines economic corridors as important networks or connections between economic agents along a defined geography, which link the supply and demand sides of markets. http://research.bworldonline.com/popular-economics/story.php?id=350&title=Economic-corridors-boost-markets,-living-conditions17. Legovini et al. (2020) comments traditional cross border agreements of transport investment focuses only on a narrow set of direct benefits and cost. However, economic corridors can entail much wider economic benefits and costs such as trade and economic activity, structural change, poverty reduction, pollution and deforestation.18. Arab Centre Washington D.C. https://arabcenterdc.org/resource/the-geopolitics-of-the-india-middle-east-europe-economic-corridor/ References Bayne, N. (2017), Challenge and Response in the New Economic Diplomacy, 4th ed., The New Economic Diplomacy, Routledge, London, p. 19.Blanchard, J.M.F. and Ripsman, N.M. (2008), “A political theory of economic statecraft”, Foreign Policy Analysis, Vol. 4, pp. 371-398, doi: 10.1111/j.1743-8594.2008.00076.x.Gereffi, G., Humphrey, J. and Sturgeon, T. (2005), “The governance of value chain”, Review of International Political Economy, Vol. 12 No. 1, pp. 78-104, doi: 10.1080/09692290500049805.Kraljic, P. (1983), “Purchasing must be supply management”, Harvard Business Review, Vol. 61 No. 5, September.Legovini, A., Duhaut, A. and Bougna, T. (2020), “Economic corridors-transforming the growth potential of transport investments”, p. 10.Octaviano, B.Y. and Trishia, P. (2014), Economic Corridors Boost Markets, Living Conditions, Business World Research, Islamabad, October.United States International Trade Commission (USITC) (1996), “Country of origin marking: Review of Laws, Regulations, and Practices”, USITC Publication, Vol. 2975, July, pp. 2-4.Further readingPorter, M. (1985), Competitive Advantage: Creating and Sustaining Superior Performance, Free Press.Putman, R.D. (1988), “Diplomacy and domestic politics; the logic of two-level games”, International Organization, Vol. 42 No. 4, pp. 427-600.USITC (2019), “Global value chain analysis: concepts and approaches”, Journal of International Commerce and Economics, April, pp. 1-29.